LIFE OF A WALLFLOWER

I literally paint flowers on walls.

So perhaps it was inevitable that one day I would become a wallflower myself.

Not the romantic kind from novels. The grey sweatshirt kind. The "don't mind me" kind. The kind that quietly slips into the background without really noticing.

The funny thing is, if you opened my wardrobe, you'd think I was someone else entirely.

It's full of colour.

Bright knits. Bold T-shirts. Patterns that once caught my eye because they made me smile. Clothes collected over years by someone who clearly loved colour.

colourful clothes waiting to be chosen

My black studio uniform

All the wallflowers lined up

And yet, most mornings, I reach for the same black clothes hanging in my studio.

Comfortable.

Practical.

Forgettable.

For a long time, I thought I was simply dressing for comfort.

But lately I've been wondering if I was dressing for something else.

To disappear.

Not consciously, of course. These things rarely happen all at once. They happen quietly. One sensible purchase at a time. One "I'll just wear this today" at a time. Until one day you realise you've become someone who always reaches for black, even though your wardrobe tells a different story.

I've been asking myself when that happened.

Was it working from home?

Was it getting older?

Was it grief?

Or did it begin much earlier?

Women receive thousands of little messages throughout our lives about how we're supposed to look. Wear something flattering. Dress for your shape. Slimming is good. Invisible is safer.

I've realised that "flattering" often seems to be code for one thing.

Looking smaller.

As though the highest compliment we can pay ourselves is taking up a little less space.

Lately, I've found myself drawn to women who are quietly rejecting that idea. Women dressing for comfort, yes, but also for joy. Wearing colours that make them feel alive. Clothes that feel like them, rather than clothes that simply disguise them.

It's made me wonder when getting dressed stopped being an act of self-expression and became an act of self-editing.

Perhaps that's why I poured all my colour somewhere else.

Into my paintings.

Into flowers.

Into quilts, bedding and the small rituals that make a house feel like home.

There's colour in my home

Colour never really left my life.

It simply stopped living on me.

A few nights ago I had the strangest dream.

I dreamt about every item of clothing I'd ever owned.

It sounds so ordinary, but I woke with the feeling that my subconscious had been introducing me to all the different versions of myself I'd been over the years. The teenager who loved getting dressed. The younger woman who delighted in putting together an outfit simply because it made her happy.

I found myself wondering where she had gone.

Then another thought arrived.

Maybe she hadn't gone anywhere.

Maybe she'd simply been waiting for an invitation back.

The more I paint flowers, the more I think they know something we've forgotten.

Flowers don't bloom because they're the right size.

They don't wait until they're more acceptable.

They don't spend spring trying to make themselves smaller.

They simply become more themselves.

Perhaps blooming has never been about becoming someone new.

Perhaps it's about returning to who we've always been.

Maybe that's what I'm doing now.

Not reinventing myself.

Not chasing a younger version of me.

Just slowly stepping back into myself.

Maybe tomorrow I'll still wear the grey sweatshirt.

Or maybe I'll reach for the bright red knit that's been waiting patiently in my wardrobe all along.

Either way, I hope the choice comes from joy rather than camouflage.

Because home, I've realised, isn't just a place.

This old photo inspiring to embrace colour again

Sometimes it's the feeling of recognising yourself again.