A Reflection on Family, Change, and Returning to Work.

Our daughter returned to university this past weekend. And just like that, we’ve become what I’m calling “half-empty nesters” — one child still at home, the other stepping into her next chapter.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the power of words — journaling, note-taking, fragments, half-sentences... how they’re often the real beginning of a new body of work. Not the drawing. Not the painting. The words.

It’s been brewing for some time. I’ve always romanticised the idea of a New York-style loft studio—big windows, paint-splattered floors, a sense of possibility. But for the past few years, my studio has lived quietly in the suburbs. And recently, that quiet began to feel a little isolating.

I debated. I overthought. (Yes, classic indecisive Libran behaviour.) I drove my husband slightly mad. But in the end, I did it—I bought an artwork! And it got me thinking about why art (or, really, beautiful things) matter in our lives.