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Drawing has always been my anchor.
As a neurodivergent girlie, the world has often felt loud, bright, and overwhelming. Even as a kid, I found comfort in the quiet repetition of making marks on a page — it gave me a sense of stillness in the chaos. Over time, this instinctive habit grew into a focused art practice. I began creating detailed black-and-white linework, often centred on native Australian botanicals. That style became my signature, and at its heart, it was always about mindfulness — a way to filter out the noise and overstimulation of daily life.
For over ten years, I worked as an illustrator and muralist, building a creative career alongside a demanding day job in tech and advertising. I lived a double life — nine-to-five in agencies, then pouring every spare second into mural applications, commissions, and exhibitions. My art practice was everything. I worked relentlessly, driven by passion, perfectionism, and the need to keep going.
In 2019, I moved to Amsterdam to chase bigger creative dreams. I lived on a boat with plans to carve out a place for myself in the European art world. My style was familiar, sought after — but beneath it, I was exhausted. I didn’t have the language for it at the time, but I was creatively burnt out. I wasn’t learning or evolving, just repeating what I already knew. The joy had quietly slipped away.
Then came 2020. Like everyone, my life derailed. I had to leave Amsterdam and return to Australia prematurely — landing home without direction, energy, or the passion I’d once poured into my practice. For the next two years, I turned down commissions and enquiries. I couldn’t fake it. I felt numb.
In this second chapter back in Australia, life shifted. I transitioned to working remotely, spent less time in the world, and softened into quieter rhythms. I started surfing. I walked more. I spent time outside. Work slowly stopped being my identity. Surfing became my new obsession — a physical, meditative outlet. For three years, that held me. It gave me something to hold onto while the noise inside my head kept rising.
Eventually, the anxiety crept back in. That tug of something missing. The old ache for a creative identity. I tried running, knitting, gardening, beading, van-renovating, swimming, book hoarding — anything to find some stillness. But I couldn’t return to the practice that once defined me. The noise got louder. I began consistent therapy. I meditated. I tried medication. I searched for silence.
I bought expensive sketchbooks, hoping to lure myself back in — but I never opened them. Until one day, in Tasmania, I picked up a cheap, flimsy $7 sketchbook and started making the most hideous observational drawings. They were awful. I laughed out loud. But there it was — a tiny, flickering spark of joy I hadn’t felt in years.
On that seven-day trip, I drew everything. Three spreads a day. Basic, messy, weird. But honest. When I got home, I kept going.
The sketchbooks became sacred. They gave me what I had always sought — silence. In loud, overstimulating situations, they dulled the internal noise. They became my crutch, my ritual, my daily companion. Three years later, I now carry an archive of over 40 sketchbooks — thousands of pages, sketched and scribbled, cataloguing a slow return to myself.
Somewhere in the middle of this, I began oil painting. It started quietly — portraits of friends and people I love, painted while sitting with the memory of them. An opportunity to bring my sketchbooks closer to life. The process slowed me down. There was stillness in it. A quiet presence. A kind of clarity I hadn’t felt in years.
Now, I find myself at square one again — reconnecting with my identity as an artist, trying to bridge the gap between my obsessive sketchbooking and my emerging oil painting practice. The noise isn’t gone, but it’s softer now, and I’m learning how to move with it. Through all of this, I’m slowly finding my way back to myself.
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(the longer version makes more sense, promise).
Neurodivergent artist; drawing = anchor in overstimulating world
Built a decade-long career in illustration/murals (native botanicals, B&W linework)
Moved to Amsterdam in 2019 → burnt out → returned to Aus mid-COVID
Stepped away from art for 3 years; focused on surfing, walking, slowing down
Reignited practice via cheap sketchbook in Tasmania — messy, joyful drawings
Now have hundreds of sketchbooks, thousands of pages; daily observational drawing = mindfulness tool
Recently started oil painting (portraits, memory, presence)
Currently exploring connection between sketchbooks + painting
Practice now centred on quiet, slowness, and sensory regulation through art
