Drawing with Intention

In the past few years, I’ve been sprinting. Chasing deadlines, recognition, and the elusive feeling of having “made it.” As if I had to prove — to everyone who believed in me and to myself — that I hadn’t made a mistake choosing illustration. That I could become a storyteller, an artist, a creator. Fast, polished, successful.

In psychology, education, and human rights, I gave myself 15 years to grow. But in illustration? I gave myself 2, maybe 3. Because I was “older” when I started. As if my worth here needed to be determined on a deadline.

In that rush, I did grow. I learned how to pitch, price, meet briefs, build relationships and ask the right questions. I adapted to styles, shifted timelines, and learned to render what worked. But when I look back, I can see which pieces were made with presence, and which were made to perform. Both did their job, some won praise, some met expectations.

At Bologna, the feedback was kind but clear: technically strong, great colours, solid perspective — but not enough children’s work (fixable), and not enough that felt uniquely mine (womp womp).

My portfolio reflects how I’ve felt: scattered, reactive, shape-shifting. A little lost.

Did I even want to be a children’s book illustrator? Or was I just trying to meet the industry where I thought it wanted me?

What stayed with people, though, was the piece on native New Zealand birds. Not because of technique alone, but because of intention. It was slow. I let myself enjoy it. I wasn’t asking, “Will they like this?” I was making it because I did.

That’s how I started this journey and that’s what I want to return to.

I didn’t choose illustration just to get hired. I chose it because I’ve always loved stories — in every form. It’s what carried me through years in research and nonprofit work. Illustration was supposed to be an extension of that. Not a reinvention of the rat race.

And if I say I want to draw work that embodies my love for bodies, music, movement and performance, families & relationships, culture & history. That platforms womxn & critical feminist discourse, climate change & conservation — that care needs to show up in more than half my portfolio.

There’s still a voice in my head saying: make it all look cohesive, you need an agent, you need to be sellable. But another voice — quieter, steadier — is asking: what if your style isn’t just one visual look, but one consistent way of caring?

And I think that’s what I want now: not to stop trying, but to stop rushing. To slow down enough to make room for intention again.