The Joy of Not Being Superwoman.

There’s a particular kind of woman I keep meeting lately.
She’s carrying seventeen tabs open in her brain, a half-drunk coffee, someone’s school jumper, and an invisible mental checklist that starts at 5am and never really ends. Her house is a little dusty. There’s washing on the chair. More plants to water than food in the fridge to feed the family.

She is also deeply sensitive and without a doubt, always trying her best and feeling like she just falls short of the prize.

Not in the polished sense.
In the human sense.

I think motherhood changes your nervous system forever. Add a neurodivergent brain, hormones shifting through perimenopause or menopause, work, relationships, caring for everybody else first — and suddenly you understand why so many women quietly crave the forest, silence, creativity and tiny moments of softness.

For me, art became less about “making something good” and more about returning to myself.

A grounding point.

A circuit breaker.

A place where my mind could finally exhale instead of perform.

Sometimes that looks like painting wildly at the kitchen table while dinner cooks. Sometimes it’s collecting driftwood from the Victorian coastline. Sometimes it’s rearranging tiny objects on a shelf like they hold the meaning of life. Sometimes it’s buying another plant while fully aware I already own too many plants.

And honestly? Plant buying does solve a surprising amount.

Not permanently.
But enough.

Enough to reconnect you to something living. Enough to remind you there’s still beauty here. Enough to soften the sharp edges of an overstimulated day.

Held By The Wild was never created to be perfect or overly curated. It’s a reflection of real life — layered, emotional, textured, unfinished in places. Much like women themselves.

The pieces I create carry traces of all of it:
motherhood,
mental overload,
deep feeling,
nature walks,
hope,
burnout recovery,
salt air,
messy homes,
and the quiet healing that happens when we make something with our hands.

I don’t think we’re supposed to live entirely disconnected from nature, creativity or rest. I think modern life asks too much from women, particularly sensitive ones. Art, for me, became a way back to something ancient and steady.

A remembering.

So if your house is dusty, your nervous system is tired, and you’ve recently come home with another plant instead of addressing the basket of unfolded washing — I understand completely.

Maybe that’s not failure.

Maybe that’s the small, beautiful evidence that some part of you is still trying to keep yourself alive and connected to beauty.

And I think that matters more than we realise.