This work is more personal than most. It tells a story. Not gently, not without pain and resistance. On the left, a shape is emerging, still touched by expectation. On the right, she has been cast away but risen, stretched out, raw and alive, claiming space in a sky scraped clean and bare. There is violence in the red. There is beauty in the blue. There is tension between them, a movement from what I expected of me and for me to what I have claimed for myself.
I am not only a mother. I am nobody’s wife.
I no longer try to be someone else’s idea of who I should be.
I am standing in the fullness of who I am, even if it is the one thing I do not dare to do.