Emma Howell
2 November, 2025
Just a little disclaimer: like the last one, this post is also a bit more personal than painterly. IVF, friendship, motherhood.. I’m talking about things that are subtly influencing what ends up on the canvas. If you’ve been following my work for a while, thank you for being here and for letting me share the stories that live behind it.
From previous posts, you’ll know that I’m not really one to hold back on life facts, feelings and personal stories. Even during IVF, when shame and fear were at their loudest, I still found myself talking about it.. and most of my nearest and dearest knew about it. I admit in this instance, I think I detrimentally overshared. But as a whole, I’ll always be a firm believer that honesty and authenticity connects us.. even when it’s uncomfortable.
I was reminded of that recently while listening to a podcast called Unlikely Friends with Emma Barnett by Claire Cohen. They spoke about the idea of an “IVF fairy” – someone who’s walked the same path and helps guide others through it. It really stuck with me.. because I had one of those fairies. I suppose this post is dedicated to her (and others) – it’s about friendship, motherhood, art, and what happens when you start to see that there is beauty among the chaos.
Owning It
Looking back, being open about IVF didn’t make it easier. If anything, it made it harder and heavier. Everyone knowing.. that I’d had a transfer, that we were waiting, that there was hope in the air.. it was all too much. Every message and every question or check in felt like pressure. There were moments I wished I’d kept it all private, but that’s not really who I am.. I share to process and to stay connected. But this.. this wasn’t something I could make sense of while I was in it. It was far too heavy and uncertain. Only now – with hindsight – can I start to pull meaning from it and to let those emotions show up in my art practice.
I wear the IVF badge so proudly now. I seriously love telling people that Lilah is an IVF baby. Partly because.. well, how flipping incredible is it?! She was made in a lab and her embryonic development was watched closely under a microscope. We even have a photograph of her as an embryo – so wild. I also share because it opens up a door.. it’s an invitation for others to share too. There’s just something really powerful and cathartic about saying it out loud. And however sad and ashamed I sometimes feel about the reality of outsourcing Lilah’s conception, I also wear it as a badge of honour. It was really, really, really really really hard.. but we got through it. Plus, we were lucky enough to actually bring a baby home – a sentence I’ll never take for granted, knowing how many don’t get to say it.
Learning to Let Go
By the time we reached IVF, I had no choice but to let go of all control. I’d done the tracking, the supplements, the acupuncture, the meditations, the “just relax” phase.. none of it worked and none of it mattered anymore. What IVF really taught me wasn’t patience or positivity, but surrender. Completely uncomfortable and ridiculously raw surrender.
I don’t even remember the names of all the drugs and which days I took them, just that our world became a miserable loop of injections, signing contracts, invasive scans, phone calls and waiting rooms. It’s so strange looking back now – I don’t think I ever fully processed it. I just existed through it. Didn’t even have head space or energy to ask Jon how he felt about it.. as we were signing our names on the dotted line of “we’re ready for a baby“.. when really, we were just ready for this pain to stop. I wasn’t strong, or brave, or determined or zen. I was just getting through each day. Jon also has a phobia of needles and I struggled to inject myself.. so that was fun.
But hey, that blurry season rewired something in me. I’ve (kind of) stopped believing that effort always equals outcome.. and I’m trying hard to accept that some things just cannot be controlled (a bit like my sassy CEO baby, who also refuses to be controlled). This same energy is what I’m going to bring to painting now.. I need to trust that something good can still come from the unknown.. and maybe that’s what motherhood is teaching me too. You know.. letting go and showing up anyway. It’s a secret faith or knowing that even in the ridiculous mess that little ones bring (physically, emotionally and spiritually), something quite extraordinary is made as well – not just the birth of a baby, but the birth of a new woman (or artist), too.
The Person Who Knew What To Say
When I first started IVF, an art collector of mine put me in touch with someone who had been through it all. Let’s call this lovely girl Z. One day, after a little bit of back-and-forth with Z, a voice note landed in my WhatsApp.. I didn’t really have any idea who Z was, what she looked like, where she lived, anything – but the second I pressed play, a weight lifted. Her voice was calm, grounded, confident and her accent north of here.. this was the beginning of a dialogue that changed everything for me.
Z had been through multiple rounds of IVF, travelled abroad for treatment, and come out the other side with lovely twins. She understood everything.. the rage, the unfairness, the sadness, the jealousy, the loneliness, the physical toll.. She didn’t sugarcoat anything, and I loved her for that. She gave me the tough love I needed and checked in regularly. I’d message her with my doubts and my spirals.. and she always, always knew what to say.
When our first IVF transfer failed, she totally understood the heartbreak. Most of my other friends just couldn’t relate.. they were living in a fertile world I didn’t belong. And as much as I loved them, I couldn’t be around them. The jealousy absolutely consumed me – I was so angry, so broken and so tired of pretending to be happy for everyone else. I was such a victim and Z helped me reframe it as much as I possibly could.
Z reminded me that this wasn’t my fault and that my body wasn’t broken – it’s just on a different path. Her daughter’s name is Hope – and when Lilah came along, we used it for her middle name. It felt right.. and it was a small way of carrying forward the strength I learned from Z. It also took a lot of hope for Lilah’s soul to find us.
Surviving Motherhood Together
Warning: if you’re in the absolute pits of IVF and infertility, I see you. What follows talks about motherhood – something that might still feel out of reach right now. If you need to step away here, that’s okay.
For anyone still reading, I wanted to share something about the women who’ve carried me through this next chapter. Motherhood has provided me with new friendships I didn’t expect.. through antenatal classes, chiropractor appointments, awkward baby groups and all day voice notes. The kind of women who’ll laugh (or cry) with you about the awkward pincer grab (if you know, you know), the brutal nights of feeling like a raging dairy cow, and the chaos only a fussy baby can bring.
Every baby is different.. some mums struggle with feeding, others with reflux, sleeplessness, or whatever “colic” is – who bloody knows. Lilah screamed all day and night for the first four months – it was absolutely relentless, draining, and honestly unbearable at times. There were nights when Jon and I just looked at each other, completely helpless.. absolutely no idea what to do, no sleep, no answers, just an inconsolable baby and that awful feeling of panic. There was also a 5am “I can’t do this, I’m never coming home” drive without the baby. Yes, I did come back. Not my finest moment.
With all this in mind.. what’s helped the most has been finding other women who are right here too – a bit like Z was during IVF. There’s so much comfort in not having to explain yourself.. in being able to say “this is so bloody hard” without pretending you’re absolutely smashing the pants off it. I’ve learned that not everyone is able to do that.. some people prefer to just soldier on, brush off their struggles, and call it strength. This would make me think that I was in fact the weak one.. for feeling things so deeply all the time and for talking about life problems so much. But these new friendships have actually shown me it’s totally okay to feel bloody awful during this phase of life – and not enjoy it (the irony).
These girls turned up right when I was barely holding it together. Postpartum has been so damn rough.. and somehow they just made it all a bit easier to get through it. The humour, the brutal honesty, the “omg same”, “ugh my baby is annoying too” and “my husband is asking too many questions” chats.. it’s been such a lifeline. Don’t know how I’d have got through some of those weeks without them. So much gratitude!
Where It All Ends Up
These last few seasons of life.. the IVF, the waiting, the loss, the love, the birth, the mothering, the screaming, the rebuilding – it’s all finding its way into my work. The next body of artwork on the table, The Motherhood Collection, isn’t just about motherhood itself – it’s about endurance, identity, and change. Just as there has been a shift in my life, there’s also one happening in my work. Like I say, my art morphs with whatever season I am in life.. and I can’t wait to see where it goes next.
With this new collection, it’s not only my story being told – it has also been shaped by the words, memories and submissions shared by so many of you. To the mothers, daughters, sisters, husbands, sons, friends who have very kindly opened up about their own experiences, thank you. Every brutal message, every note of joy or exhaustion and every heartfelt poem has filtered into these pieces in one way or another. It’s become a universal body of work.. a collective reflection of what it means to nurture, lose, grow, and begin again.
Every original in the collection will carry something from these shared stories: the surrender I learned during IVF, the loneliness that enveloped me, the connections that slowly pieced me back together.. plus the daughter telling me about the woes about her own mother, the new mum desperate for her old life back and an anonymous story of regret, rage and love. Ferocious red, soft greens, a humdrum of greys, baby-like pinks, tired blues.. colours are coming together to unfold our stories – and I hope I do them justice.
The Motherhood Collection is yet to have a launch date, but I’m hoping it’ll be before Christmas. If you’d like to receive updates about it and be a part of the private launch, make sure you’re signed up to my mailing list.
I’d Love To Be Someone’s IVF Fairy
Since Lilah’s arrival and I guess since I’ve publicised my journey to her, a couple of women have reached out – an old friend, and a friend of a friend who’ve just started their own IVF journeys.. and we’ve exchanged a few encouraging words. But I haven’t quite been anyone’s “IVF fairy” yet – I’d like to be. If anything, I just want to open that door for others – the way someone once did for me. Sometimes all you need is one person who understands that complex language of waiting, hope and loss.. someone who’s been there and got the t-shirt. If I can be that person for even one woman, then something good has come out of all of it. Let me know.
Side note: The artwork featured on this page – Why Should Life Be Fair? – was painted in 2024 (now sold and living in Paris), right in the pits of infertility. It was part of my Soul collection, which I made before motherhood.. when life felt like one big flipping question mark. A few pieces from that series are still available and hanging at The White Gallery.