Reflection

Reflection, is about. Many of my collections are inspired by other people’s stories, with little pieces of my own woven in along the way. This one is a little different.

Over the past year, I’ve felt a shift in my life. Not a huge or dramatic one, just enough to make me stop and reflect. Eight years ago, I was pregnant with Arthur, excited for what was to come. I was 23, a young mum, and everything was new. It was my first time at life too, while also growing a tiny person. 

Thankfully, he arrived earthside healthy and happy. But somewhere along the way, while making sure he was safe and happy, I lost myself. Motherhood strips away the old version of you very quickly, and there is a grief that comes with that. You don’t quite know who you are anymore. I would look in the mirror and not recognise myself, but the hardest part was that I couldn’t remember who I was supposed to be.

Slowly, over the years, I started to feel like myself again. Not because of how I looked, but because of how I thought. I began to see life differently and understand what was truly important to me. So many things that felt significant before Arthur suddenly seemed insignificant. Looking back, I don’t think the girl in her early twenties liked much about herself. As much as motherhood broke me in places, it also forced me to rebuild. It wasn’t just about me anymore; it was about becoming the best version of myself, and that took a long time to figure out.

When I talk about this collection, it hasn’t come from nowhere. It comes from years of growth, reflection, and remembering that this is my first time here too.

The Roman goddess carved into the beautiful carnelian was one of the first pieces I ever sent away to be cast. Arthur must have been around eighteen months old when I made it. It’s always been with me in some way, but I felt drawn to bring it back.

Leda and the Swan has its own story, and while parts of it resonate with me, I feel as though she landed on my workbench years ago and simply waited. Arthur had tucked the glass intaglio away in his little box of rocks and crystals which was my box when I was little, but one he has taken and I don’t think I will ever get that one back.

One day we were sitting on his bed, talking about what he thought the carving meant. I came up with an elaborate story, but his answer was beautifully simple.

Mum, it’s just a lady with her head pressed against a swan.

That was it.

No mythology. No symbolism. No complicated narrative. Just what he could see.

And suddenly it clicked. Sometimes things don’t need to be complicated. Sometimes reflection is simple. It’s not always about changing what you look like or becoming someone completely different. Sometimes it’s about recognising who you’ve become, honouring who you once were, and understanding that both versions of yourself can exist together.