Emma Howell
24 October, 2025
It’s strange how a few words from someone else can find their way under your skin. These ones did – and they’ve carried me through the blur of early motherhood, and (kind of) back to myself again. (This post is also just unfiltered thoughts and chore procrastination while baby sleeps).
A few months ago, I sent out an honest newsletter about life and motherhood. I wasn’t looking for sympathy or advice, just wanted to touch base and give you an update. I’d been deep in the fog of sleep deprivation, feeling overstimulated, disorganised and completely detached from the artist I once knew myself to be. It’s not that I didn’t adore Lilah.. it’s that I didn’t know where I’d gone.
Among the replies, one email ended with two simple words: Be Unstoppable. I don’t know if they realised how much I needed to hear that. The email arrived at exactly the right time – when I was barely holding myself together. Those two words have stuck with me ever since.
The next morning, I added a daily reminder to my phone. Every day at 9am, it flashes up: Be Unstoppable. Sometimes I ignore it, sometimes I roll my eyes.. but it’s always there, lingering at the back of my mind. A nudge that says “you’re still here“.
The Hardest Journey
Disclaimer: I should probably say here.. I’m an unfiltered human by nature. I overshare, I waffle, and I process life out loud. It’s my way of making sense of things – AND a way to connect with others who are also going through the same experience. I highly recommend you let it all hang out every now and again.
Here it goes – motherhood hasn’t been easy for me (is it for anyone?). It’s the hardest, rawest, most exposing thing I’ve ever lived through – and that’s saying something after the decade Jon and I have had. After losing my dad in 2016, I thought I understood pain and endurance..but motherhood is a totally different kind of hardship. Okay, okay, yes, there’s love – an indescribable, all-consuming love, but there’s also loss: of identity, control, silence, time, patience, and I suppose – self.
And then there’s the road that actually led to it. The years of trying, hoping and heartbreak. The vicious cycle of optimism and despair. The overwhelming turmoil of seeing yet another negative pregnancy test, month after month, while your body betrays you and your mind withdraws/checks out. The jealousy that burns through every ounce of you – watching friends fall pregnant easily while you’re tracking, supplementing, acupuncture-ing, meditating, gratitude journalling, “relax and it’ll happen”-ing, eating clean, praying on your knees, going to church, doing everything “right”.. and still absolutely nothing.
Infertility completely stripped me of everything I had. It tore apart my sense of control, whatever confidence I had, my identity as a strong and healthy woman. I remember crying on the kitchen floor, banging my head against the radiator, even throwing glasses across the room – desperate for a different outcome, for my body to just work. But eventually, through IVF, Lilah Hope Munson found her way to us. Her soul finally found us.
And yet, the guilt that followed – oh, boy. The quiet, shameful guilt of wondering if maybe my inability to conceive was all a sign.. that maybe I wasn’t meant to be a mother. Perhaps the universe was protecting me from something I wasn’t built for. It was bizarre – to be feeling so much love and so much doubt at the same time. It didn’t make sense. I didn’t make sense.
What “Be Unstoppable” Really Means
Being unstoppable doesn’t mean I’m endlessly strong, furiously disciplined or relentlessly productive. And it doesn’t mean I’m thriving everyday (pah!). For me, it’s about presence and about not losing myself – even when life keeps trying to pull me under.
It’s also about surrender and acceptance (which I also learnt from my wonderful doula, Debs) – knowing I might not paint everyday, but the pre-baby person (and artist) in me is still alive and observing. Some days, being unstoppable means finishing a commission. Other days, it means going for a long run (and never wanting to return – wish I was joking). It’s also just surviving the day, keeping Lilah fed and warm.. making another cup of coffee.. you know, basically not giving up.
I actually signed up for the half marathon when I was pregnant – maybe trying to think ahead, or give myself something to work towards when life inevitably will flip upside down. After 20 weeks of obsessive training (thanks to Jon for enabling me the time to do so), and seven months after having Lilah, I ran it. Not to prove anything to anyone, but to remind myself I was still here.. still capable of showing up.
Pain comes in different shapes and sizes. Some people wear it openly; others hold it tight and just keep moving. We never really know what someone else carries, and maybe we’re not meant to. We each have our own weather to move through. And something that always stays with me is this: no matter how loved or surrounded we are, we face our own minds completely alone. That thought is both terrifying and humbling.. and a good reminder to give other mothers (or anyone, really) a bit more grace.
Small Windows of Time
My creative practice looks so different now. It happens in fragments – between naps, when Lilah’s playing on the mat, or when Jon takes her out and I can breathe for half an hour. My paintings are extremely slow to take shape. They’re quieter, more intuitive, rooted in movement and the mess of daily life – somewhere between total chaos and brief calm.
I’m feeling more drawn to colours that feel lived-in – muted greens, powdery pinks, soft blues, chalky yellows, greys that linger.. The marks are often looser, more emotional. They feel human. Honest.
The Motherhood Collection has been unfolding slowly in the background. Some pieces might not make it into the final body of work – and that’s okay. Each one carries a pulse, a story and a breath (sourced from the many motherhood submissions from you). They’re about keeping going, finding myself again, and rebuilding bit by bit in the small windows of time. Read more about the collection here >
For My Collectors, Followers and Friends
To the people who collect my work – those who’ve followed my journey for years, and those who’ve just discovered it, please know this: every painting carries a piece of my story, but it also carries yours.
You might see something different in it – a memory, a season, a feeling that can’t quite be put into words. That’s the beauty of art, don’t you think? It isn’t about me creating and then you owning. It’s about sharing. It’s about living with a fragment of emotion that belongs to both of us.
When someone invests in my work, they’re not just collecting a painting. They’re joining a conversation – one that’s about humanity, resilience, grief, love, connection.. Well, that’s what I want my work to stand for anyway – art that listens and breathes.
To the Mothers (and the Not-Yet Mothers)
To the mothers reading this – the ones deep in the trenches, the ones barely hanging on – I see you.
To the women still waiting, still hoping, still grieving – I see you too. I know the pain, the longing, the endless cycle of hope and disappointment. Please know that this space, and my work, holds you with love and compassion.
You’re not behind. You’re not broken. You’re simply becoming someone new. You’re still here, still moving, still trying – and that is what unstoppable looks like.
I also must express my deepest gratitude for the mums I’ve met along the way – old friends and new (you know who you are). You’ve helped me through some seriously dark days, often without even knowing it. The messages, the “stay-and-plays”, the humour, the honesty, (the cake).. they’ve made such a difference.
Thank you for never making me feel self-conscious or ashamed for being open about how hard this can be. For letting me say it as it is, and not making me feel like I have to hide it. You’ve shown me what real understanding looks like, and I’ll always be grateful for that.
A Note to You, The Reader
If you’ve made it this far – thank you. Every time someone reads, connects, or pauses here for a moment, it reminds me that connection still matters. My paintings grow out of that same place – reflection, surrender and endurance. When one finds its way into someone’s home, it feels like shared understanding. It’s kind of hard to find words to describe what it means when someone chooses to collect my work – whether it’s their first piece or one of many. It’s never just a transaction. It’s a moment that validates what I do, helps continue my dad’s legacy, and supports the little family I’ve built. It means more than I can ever fully express.
P.S. A note for Jon, thank you for surviving life with two opinionated girls. You deserve a medal.. or at least a quiet night with a beer, your guitar and a four-hour YouTube video titled “Building a Solar-Powered Outbuilding Meat Smoker with Automated Lighting, Backup Hard Drive Storage and Integrated Berghaus Jacket Hooks“. But seriously, thank you for the endless support, for taking on the brutal brutal nights, and for being the most hands-on, patient dad I could have hoped for. You’ve carried us both, and I’ll never forget it.
