My mom is pivotal to BLACKBUTTERFLY. She’s the reason I have such a deep connection to butterflies at all. The grief and the messages she sends me confirm that again and again. This piece felt like a launch point. A rebirth.

My intention was simple, or at least I thought it was. I wanted to draw a detailed portrait, the way I did with my Grandad. I don’t have many pictures of her. The reference I used was a picture of a picture, but I believed I had enough information to create a great portrait anyway.

This picture is a living memory for me. I remember she did her hair, put her favourite dress on and I was told to photograph. Digital camera’s weren’t a thing yet. She had this thick black camera with the film in, that needed developing down the local photo shop. That trusty camera came to all to all events and gatherings. Looking back, I was so grateful she did. My job that specific night, was to take the picture. We giggled a lot, she changed her poses a few times, 8 year old me wanted to get it over and done with. But Mom wanted the perfect shot. There was no retakes, no checking the shot and adjusting yourself. This image shows real, raw authentic confidence and knowing of self. She’s simply showing who she was.

Now her 60th birthday was coming up which I coincided with my relaunch. 26/01/26. I always struggle around this time of year January holds her birthday, February holds the transition of her passing, and March brings Mother’s Day. Longing and grief were weighing on me heavily, but I couldn’t release them. Songs would come on, tears would rise, pain would surface, but never enough to fully let go. I thought this piece would imitate my mother. I took the picture so I could remember that moment. Even if only faintly. I was afraid I’d forget what she looked like, or what she sounded like, and I wanted this drawing to be something I could return to.

The wings were a last minute choice and completely free hand. I wanted them to show her power, her protection, how I feel her now. I know she surrounds me, wings wrap round me. Her energy is undeniable. Even though I wanted to create a life like portrait, I wanted the wings so speak of her energetic presence.x

The body developed easily. That part flowed. But when I reached the face, everything changed. Anxiety rose. Pressure tightened. Fear crept in. I couldn’t get her to look like the picture, and worse than that, the person I was drawing didn’t look like my mother.

That frustration, mixed with longing and a sudden sense of failure, broke me open. I cried. The tears flowed, but still, it didn’t feel like a full release. The energy stayed in my body, unresolved. I didn’t know how to shake it. I had to step away.

It’s time to stop hiding what I believe is wrong and live in it. Step into it. Feel it. Grief isn’t a low vibration emotion. It’s love longing. Love is at my core, and that is what I need to focus on.

I didn’t even want to look at the work. I wanted to tear it off the wall and start again. If I’d had the time, I probably would have. It felt like confirmation of my deepest fear: that the connection was fading. That I was forgetting her. And this being the first piece of the rebirth, the thought landed hard. Am I rebirthing failure?

And then something shifted.

I realised the rebirth wasn’t the drawing. It was within me.

I left the piece overnight.

The next day I returned with a different mindset. I played music. I sang from my soul to release the fear and shakiness still living in my body. I made a vow to appreciate the process and whatever came up through it. I tried to correct the areas of the face that didn’t feel like her, but after a few strokes, I let the body lead again.

Then it happened.

I scribbled across the face. And in that moment, it hit me.

I’m afraid of losing memories. My love has nowhere to land physically. My mother has transitioned, but I feel her. She’s still with me. I don’t need validation from anyone else to know that. I know it. I need to focus my love and let it land on who my mother is now.

I thought about butterfly wings, but wings are inspired by the phoenix. I freehanded them easily, drawing directly from the way I experience her now. Guardian energy. Still protected. Still held. The connection is softer, but it’s there. Now I can allow the physical form to fall away, because it’s all energy. And energy is what I feel most clearly.

My mother speaks to me through music now. Through songs we used to sing together. Through moments where her presence arrives without needing to be seen.

I finally felt a release.

Not in the way I expected.

For a long time, I believed release had to look like tears or pain leaving the body. I didn’t realise I could release this energy through creation. Through staying present. Through letting my hands move where words couldn’t.

Being aware of an emotion is one thing. Accepting it as my current state of being is another. When I stopped resisting grief and allowed it to exist without judgement, it no longer crippled me. It began to fuel me. The material, charcoal, no longer intimidating. I grabbed the water and the brush and let it take over. Thinking logically can freeze me sometimes. Because I over think. Thinking of so many variables, so many outcomes, including failures, then feeds a fear to even begin. My body then shits down. But engaging with my heart, pure emotion, there’s no fear.

Drawing is the language I know best.

Hand to paper.

This is how I speak. This is how I breathe.

My creation is my release.

My creation is love.

For years, grief has weighed heavy on me. It’s been eight years, yet my body still reacts as if it was last year. That freeze. That heaviness. The denial of movement. Through this process, I realised that grief wasn’t asking to be removed. It was asking to be expressed.

This work has shown me that creating with intention, alongside breath, sound, and movement, can relieve pressure from my nervous system. It gives love somewhere to land. It gives the body permission to move again.

This portrait wasn’t about holding onto the past.

It was about learning how to carry love forward.

Art didn’t take my grief away. It allowed it to flow.