I’ve been making art for as long as I can remember. When I was little, growing up in the countryside, I’d build tiny sculptures and dollhouses out of moss, mud, sticks, and leaves. I didn’t think of it as art back then—it was just something I felt like doing. At school, I’d fill the corners of my notebooks with doodles, and whenever family got together, it would somehow turn into a craft session.

But even though it was always part of me, there was this quiet voice that kept saying, “It’s just a hobby.” Like dreaming of doing it seriously was too much.

That started to shift when I began studying fine arts in my early 30s. Walking into university felt like finding people who spoke the same language as me for the first time. Something changed. I started getting feedback I never expected—teachers and peers noticing my work, even praising it. I didn’t realise how much I needed that.

Then the high distinctions came. And I know grades aren’t everything, but for someone who always felt like maybe they weren’t “good enough,” it meant a lot. It felt like proof that my work said something. That the feelings and thoughts I put into it were reaching someone else.

Now I can’t imagine not doing this. I finally feel like I’m living the life that always felt just out of reach. And I think I’ve learned that sometimes, the thing you’ve quietly loved all your life is actually the thing you’re meant to share.

My process is always evolving, but at its core, it’s about creating space—for myself and others—to feel, remember, and reimagine.