Emma Howell
19 November, 2025
This specific season of life – motherhood – has thrown me in every direction as a new mum, as a woman, and also as an artist. I’ve spent so much of the past year just trying to keep my head above the water and desperately trying to claw “the old me” back amongst the chaos. And this recent obsession with writing has been a way for me to make sense of everything I’ve carried.. and everything that’s changing. As a bonus, it’s also a way to give you more context behind The Motherhood Collection.
Re-reading Your Submissions
Before starting this body of work, I reached out to my audience, friends, collectors.. anyone who felt compelled to share.. and asked for their words on motherhood. Stories, poems, random words, confessions.. absolutely anything. I often invite others into my creative practice, and some past collections have grown from the stories and images people have sent me (81 Wild, Four Year Wild Fire and Snapshots). The Motherhood Collection continues that tradition.. these 50 artworks come from all of us, not just me.
Re-reading your submissions over the past few days has made everything feel very real. There’s something grounding about seeing your own experiences reflected back through other people.. the highs, the lows, the uncertainty, the love, the exhaustion, the grief.. It’s reminding me that none of us are doing this alone, even when it feels that way. And it’s also reminding me how grateful I am for this community and the honesty you’ve shared with me over the years. Thank you.
“There’s spit-up on the sleeve again, a smear of mashed banana on my thigh. I used to be someone. Or maybe I was just more awake.”
“No one told me I’d miss my old name – that I’d grieve the girl who moved through the world untouched, without someone always needing her.”
“Motherhood is a paradox: crushing and expanding all at once. You’re lonely and yet you aren’t alone. It’s anxiety and awe, rage and love, all tangled together.”
“I grew teeth. I named things. I left the table where I was only fed crumbs. Now my child knows love is warm, love is loud, and never makes them feel small.”
“Sometimes I miss myself so hard it feels like cheating on you.”
Creating In This Season
Early motherhood takes up a ridiculous amount of space in your mind and body. Time feels different now.. energy, motivation and drive too. Some days I have absolutely nothing to give, and other days I surprise myself. Creating within all of this has been messy and slow, not because I don’t want to make the work, but because everything feels gross and unfamiliar.
Painting in my motherhood-era is not glamorous. It’s tiring, chaotic, rushed and often feels chore-like. I scrape together tiny snippets of time during Lilah’s naps.. usually surrounded by piles of clothes, crumbs from yet another rice cake covered in almond butter, and about 29 teaspoons used once to scoop out teabags from the endless cups of tea I never finish. It’s not inspiring in the slightest, but I keep coming back because I need it. Painting has been part of my identity since I was very small (apparently), and the thought of losing it is unacceptable. Giving up just isn’t an option.
There’s also the financial reality. Art isn’t a hobby for me.. it’s my job, my stability, my business that I hold close to my chest.. the thing that keeps everything moving. But underneath all of that is a gut feeling.. a pull to stay connected to myself through the work, even when everything around me feels blerghhh.
Creating like this.. imperfect, interrupted, chaotic.. is showing me that my work can change and still be mine. That I can evolve with it.. and that even in this ridiculous, upside-down season, I am still an artist.. a stubborn, committed one.. growing through all of it rather than running from it.
Ooh, I’m already waffling.
What Breaks You Makes You
Ok, this sounds random.. but I’ll link it all up, promise.
I’ve been thinking about strength training a lot recently, mainly because I miss it so damn badly. Lifting weights has been part of my life for nearly fifteen years. Not professionally, just consistently.. with a lot of love and discipline. It was my routine, my release, my way of feeling strong and connected to my own body. The pulling, the pushing, the sensation of a muscle working hard.. the burn, the pump, the sweat, the focus, the tears.. that moment your muscles finally give in and the weight drops to the floor. It might sound dramatic or maybe boring to some, but it was marvellous. I feel far away from that version of myself because I haven’t touched a barbell properly in about a year (well, until last Monday).
I was talking to a close friend who lifts too, and she understood exactly what I meant.. that heaviness, that groundedness, that strange mix of pain and pleasure that somehow makes you feel more like yourself. And it made me realise how similar life is to strength training. Only now, the weights are emotional, not physical.
If I zoom out and look at the past few years.. Dad dying, the lockdowns, the self employment, the infertility, the IVF, motherhood.. it’s all felt very heavy. But here’s the thing.. emotional weight works a lot like physical weight. You don’t get stronger unless something tears a bit. In the gym, the muscle literally breaks so it can rebuild. In life, the same thing happens. These experiences tear you apart in ways you can’t ever imagine, and somehow that’s where the strength comes from.
It’s weird to admit, but these hardships have built me in ways the easy seasons never could. So maybe I should feel a bit exhilarated by it all.. in a twisted, strength-training kind of way.
Just something I’ve been thinking about.
That Gratitude
And somewhere in the middle of all this heaviness, a feeling that keeps cropping up.. gratitude. I know I’ve written about this before and I will until the cows come home. Serious gratitude.
I never imagined that art alone would sustain me for almost five years. I’m someone who had what I used to call a “normal job”.. a regular (almost) 9-5 in a marketing agency. It gave me some experience in SEO, but I genuinely didn’t think I’d ever reach a point where painting would be the only thing that supports me through everything.. infertility (jeeeez.. we had to spend so much money), grief, pregnancy, and this first year of motherhood. Somehow, through commissions, dribs and drabs of sales, and the people who believe in my work, I’ve managed to keep going. It still surprises me, every day. So, thank you.. you know who you are.
I’m grateful for the friendships that have arrived at this bizarre time – for the people who supported me through the hardest parts of my fertility journey.. for Jon, who’s endured over a decade of storms with me.. and for the Oxford Fertility Clinic for helping bring Lilah into our world. And the setbacks – oh my god, the setbacks. What blessings in disguise. They’ve shaped me in ways I’ll never be able to explain.
Where The New Work Belongs
When someone brings one of the new pieces from The Motherhood Collection into their home, I don’t want it to just sit there looking nice. I want it to actually mean something. I want them to see a bit of themselves in it.. the tired bits, the hopeful bits, the real life ugly bits we don’t always say out loud. Something they can look at on the good days and the days that feel completely impossible.
These pieces aren’t only for mothers. They’re for anyone who feels a connection for whatever reason comes up. Maybe it’s celebrating motherhood. Maybe it’s getting through something hard. Maybe it’s recognising a shift in themselves. Whatever the reason, I just want the paintings to end up with the people they genuinely make sense for.. their soul mate.
A Final Note
There are only 50 pieces in The Motherhood Collection, and each one carries its own little energy.. its own mood and story. I honestly believe every painting has a soul it’s meant for – someone it feels right with. You’ll know if it’s you.. not in a dramatic way, just a gut feeling.
If you’d like to be part of the private launch for this collection.. to see the pieces first, get the launch date, and have early access before they go public, make sure you’re signed up to my mailing list. My subscribers always get first dibs.
I’m excited (and terrified) to share the work with you – it feels very very uncomfortable. But hey, I’m just so grateful that you’re here, reading this, supporting me in the ways you do. It means a lot. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
