My Story

For most of my life, I believed becoming ‘better’ meant pushing harder. I bullied my body into being smaller, ignored physical discomfort and treated frustration as something to get through. If something felt difficult, I assumed I needed more discipline. I thought criticism was motivating and kindness was complacency.

Then, after my son was born, my body stopped me.

A spinal injury I'd carried for sixteen years returned and left me unable to sit or stand without pain. I couldn't lift my baby, and I barely recognised the body I'd spent years working to control.

Recovery wasn't just physical; it challenged everything I believed about growth.

I couldn't force my body to heal, I had to become curious instead. It took two years before I could walk more than 100 metres without doubling over in pain, and during that time I realised I'd spent much of my life avoiding hard emotions by hiding them behind busy-ness, exercise and food.

And this affected everything; my body, my career, my relationships…

When I became pregnant with my second child, a question arrived that I couldn't ignore; if I don't learn to love my own body, how will I teach my children to love theirs?

So I started drawing.

At first, it was simply a way of spending time with my body instead of criticising it. Drawing forced me to slow down, observe and pay attention without judgement. The more closely I looked, the less there was to hide.

I wasn't changing my body. I was changing my relationship with it.

For years, I'd believed that being hard on myself was what made me successful. In reality, it fuelled emotional eating, perfectionism and the constant feeling that I needed to become someone else before I was enough.

Curiosity changed everything.

Instead of asking, "How do I change my body?" I began asking, "What does my body need from me?”

That simple shift changed the way I cared for myself. Movement became an act of love rather than punishment. Food became nourishment instead of comfort. My body became something to listen to instead of control.

Ironically, when I stopped trying to force change, I became stronger than I'd ever been. Not because I found more discipline, but because I found compassion.

That lesson didn't stop with my body. It quietly spread into every part of my life.

I left a finance career that looked successful but made me unhappy. I learned that slowing down wasn't failure. I started paying attention to the things that frustrated me instead of rushing past them.

A mess that needs to be tidied immediately. A postpartum body that society teaches us to criticise. The family photograph that isn't perfect but somehow captures everything you never want to forget.

Again and again, I discovered the same truth; the things that trigger us aren't interruptions. they're invitations.

Every feeling of resistance has something to teach us if we're willing to stay curious for a little longer.

That's why I create the work I do.

I draw symbols of internal chaos. I draw them because they have done something extraordinary, change the way we see and show up in the world.

I create to preserve the feeling inside and behind the image, because the feeling is what we spend our lives trying to hold onto.

My art is a reminder that beauty isn't something we find in perfect moments; it's something we discover when we stop judging, slow down and really pay attention.

I've learned that what we resist often has the most to teach us. The things we avoid can become the things that set us free, if we're willing to look at them with curiosity instead of criticism.

That's why every piece I create begins with the same belief:

What you're avoiding is often the answer.

BCx