Most days, I handle my collection of conditions like the fabulous, neurodivergent, art-slinging badass I am. I make it work. I laugh about it. I paint about it. But some days? Some days it feels like too much. Today was a too much day.

And I think it’s okay to say that out loud.

Every time someone says “Oh… do you just sell prints?” a glitter fairy loses its wings and I develop a twitch in my left eye.

Pretty, safe, and inoffensive art might sell fast.
But will it haunt people? Will it challenge them? Will it live rent-free in their emotional attic for the next ten years?

Unlikely.

You know who told me I was an artist?
Me.
(And my nan. But mostly me.)

Not because someone approved my brushstrokes.
Not because I got “discovered.”
But because I couldn’t not make art.
And because people saw themselves in it. That’s the bit the gatekeepers forget.

When you’ve had to bottle shit up your whole life—
When the world told you you were too loud, too messy, too weird, too much—
You find a way to speak without speaking.
To scream without making a sound.

That’s what creativity is.

While most folks are still wondering if their selfie needs a filter, drag artists are out there saying:
“Here’s every complex, contradictory part of me—now bow, bitches.”

…if it doesn’t rattle something, tweak a nipple, or whisper something deliciously uncomfy, then what’s the bloody point?

It all begins with an idea.

When I paint, I’m not soothing myself with watercolours and lavender oil.
I’m cracking open old truths.

…when you’re self-taught?
No one’s setting your limits. You don’t even know where they are.
Which is terrifying.
And exhilarating.