As a young girl, I dreamed of becoming an artist. Creativity and dance have always been integral to my life, and through dancing I was fortunate to travel the world, working as a showgirl and magician’s assistant in circuses across the UK, Malta and Japan. Those experiences introduced me to different cultures, people and ways of life, broadening my perspective and continually fuelling my creativity.

Over time, that creativity naturally found its way into the work I did with others. I built a varied career teaching baby sign language, drama to children with ASD, entertaining at children’s parties and running singing groups for babies, toddlers and their families. I also brought music into care homes for people living with dementia and Alzheimer’s, creating opportunities for residents and their families to connect. Although these roles were very different, they all gave me the same sense of purpose: using creativity to bring people together and build meaningful connections and community.

Then the lockdowns took it all away. The people I worked with were suddenly considered too vulnerable to be around others, leaving the communities I had built my working life around completely out of reach. At home with my children and unable to work, I began to focus less on what I had lost and more on what I could still do.

That was when I realised my childhood dream of becoming an artist was still within reach. After lockdown, I returned to college in Hastings to study an Art Foundation course and graduated with a distinction. Encouraged by one of my tutors, I applied to Central Saint Martins (CSM) in London – and, to my surprise, was accepted. As a single parent with mobility issues, the journey from Hastings seemed almost impossible, but somehow I made it work.

Getting into CSM felt like a dream. As a mature student with a very abstract style, I initially felt completely out of my depth and struggled with imposter syndrome. But I worked hard, and gradually my confidence grew.

Then, in Easter 2023, aged 49, everything changed. A friend and neighbour sexually assaulted me. I reported it to the police, but instead of support, I was ostracised and bullied by members of my community who chose to believe him. I was branded a liar, while he became the victim. The case eventually went to trial at Crown Court, where, despite nine of the twelve jurors believing me, he was acquitted.

The aftermath left me extremely low and isolated, and profoundly affected my ability to create. I returned to university hoping art would help me escape the darkness, but often found myself sitting in the studio unable to work. When I did, my art became increasingly dark, reflecting what I had experienced. After my second year, I deferred for a year to process the trauma and try to work through the resentment, hurt and anger.

During that year, I experienced two further sexual violations by two different men I knew. Again, I reported the assaults and again I was deeply let down by the systems that were supposed to protect me.

Eventually, I returned to university with a different perspective. I realised that I could no longer use art simply to escape my thoughts; I could use it to confront them. Art became my cathartic tool – a way to process what had happened, reclaim my voice and begin to redirect the shame that had wrongly been placed upon me.

My work became a way of exploring assault, abuse, consent and the right to touch. I wanted to tell not only my own story, but also create space for the stories of others, because sexual violence does not discriminate. No age, gender, ability, religion, colour or background makes anyone immune.

I began creating tactile, interactive work exploring consent and permission to touch. I wanted my art to engage multiple senses , so that my less explicit work could be accessible to children, people with visual impairments and people with special educational needs. By creating work that could be felt as well as seen, I hoped to make its message more memorable.

One of my most personal pieces was Get the Tongues Wagging, a wearable artwork inspired by my first assault and the gossip and rumours that followed. Covered in hundreds of flesh-coloured tongues, the piece moves as I walk, deliberately creating something unsettling.

I had originally planned to wear it at my degree show, but circumstances changed, and instead I wore it to my graduation in July 2026 at the Royal Festival Hall, alongside my cap and gown. It became a deliberate act of reclaiming something that had become associated with fear and shame.

Central Saint Martins shared a video of my graduation performance, and the work went viral. I was delighted to be named their ‘Winner of Originality’, but the video also attracted a torrent of online abuse, including racist and political comments and deeply personal insults.

But that’s okay. I am no longer a victim; I am a survivor. My art is about reclaiming my power and confidence -taking the shame placed upon me and returning it to where it belongs: with the perpetrators. Not everyone is comfortable with that, and that’s okay too.

If my work makes people uncomfortable, perhaps that is exactly the point. Maybe a little discomfort is necessary if we are to confront the things many would rather not talk about.

I once thought being a vet would be too emotional for me. Little did I know just how profoundly emotional being an artist could be.

Now, my sense of purpose has returned. Through my art, I am once again creating connection, building supportive communities and, most importantly, reclaiming my voice.