If my life were a clip show, this would be the season finale montage nobody asked for—but here we are.
Time, it turns out, has no chill.
It marches. It gallops. It sprints past waving its arms shouting, “Keep up!” And I don’t think I’ve managed to grab a proper reflective moment since the end of the pandemic in 2022. Since then, life has felt less like a carefully curated journey and more like a never-ending carousel of minor emergencies, broken printers, emotional whiplash, and antibiotics.
Sometimes I read back through my writing from years gone by and—honestly—I nearly cry. Not because it was particularly brilliant, but because of the sheer, luminous naivety of it. Pre-pandemic me was optimistic. Hopeful. Borderline wholesome. She believed that humanity, when faced with catastrophe, might pause, reflect, and come out kinder.
During the early days of Covid I even wrote a blog saying I hoped lockdowns would help us reassess what we want as a human race. That isolation would show us how deeply we need one another. That we would leave our caves with renewed love, respect, and care for other humans.
What a nitwit.
Here we are, three years beyond our traumatic tango with a super virus, and if anything we emerged from our caves like a pack of angry, territorial grizzly bears. Actually, that’s unfair to bears. Bears hibernate, stretch, and then quietly get on with their business.
We came out like individual narcissistic sociopaths armed with Wi-Fi, opinions, and the unshakable belief that we are the main character.
Oops. I’m getting waylaid. This is meant to be a review of my 2025, not a five-year postmortem on collective human behaviour. But it’s hard to view 2025 in isolation when it feels like the aftershock of everything that came before it. Context matters. Trauma lingers. And so does fatigue.
Still—onward.
Forty: The Birthday That Whispered Instead of Roared
2025 was a landmark year in terms of birthdays. Born in 1985, I clocked up my 40th jaunt around the sun. I celebrated by going out for lunch with my mates and being home in bed by 8pm.
Reader, it was lovely.
No three-day bender. No dramatic anecdotes involving kebabs or regret. Just food, laughter, and the sweet knowledge that I would wake up without a hangover. People say that 40 is the new 30, but frankly my 30s were far more exciting—and far less considerate of my immune system.
So let’s do this properly. Cue the montage music. Let’s go month by month.
January: Wreaths, Workshops, and Delusions of Hustle
January kicked off with work alongside Arcadea Disability Arts and Equal Arts, running art and photography workshops. I created several wreath collages during this time with the intention of exhibiting them—one with the Art Café and another with Sunderland Indie. I managed the Art Café show. The other… less so. A recurring theme.
In a burst of New Year optimism (and perhaps mild financial panic), I decided that this would be the year I worked my lady bollocks off. I was going to increase income via Patreon, Amazon affiliate links, and finally monetise my YouTube channel.
I was going to be strategic. Focused. A content machine.
Ah, January Me. So young. So full of dreams.
February: Collage Every Day and Grief Between the Cracks
February was dominated by the Februllage collage challenge on Instagram. I committed to creating a transient collage every day—because apparently I enjoy deadlines that do not pay me.
Alongside that, I organised a significant chunk of social media for the Save the National Glass Centre campaign, spent precious time with my nieces, and started experimenting with agar printing to complete a ten-lesson plan for Patreon. I also began subtitling my lessons for YouTube release, because accessibility matters and also because I enjoy making extra work for myself.
This month carried sadness too. I remembered friends Geof Armstrong and Karen Shreader, both taken far too soon. I took part in a podcast with Hiya Little Lady to memorialise Karen, which was equal parts painful and beautiful—the kind of grief that reminds you why community matters.
I continued working with Arcadea and Equal Arts, including several commercial photography engagements. Work and life interwoven, as always.
March: Tomatoes, Cyanotypes, and a Face Full of Impetigo
March saw the beginning of a protest artwork series with Arcadea Disability Arts. It also saw me accidentally taking a tin of tomatoes to work instead of tomato soup. No further comment.
Creatively, I made cyanotype folded books about Sir John Herschel, the inventor of cyanotype, because I enjoy honouring historical figures using processes that stain everything blue.
Physically, however, March was a mess. I got impetigo on my face. On my face. I was unwell and run-down for weeks, requiring antibiotics twice. Nothing humbles you like skin infections that refuse to take a hint.
Still, the yarden (yes, yarden) began to bloom. I started pressing new flowers for printmaking, wrote a how-to on creating a cyanotype origami fortune teller, and made a bundle of them as article illustrations. I also started helping Phil with his own YouTube channel, proving once again that even when unwell I cannot sit still.
April: Protest Art, Fundraising Glory, and Turning 40
April was a continuation of protest artworks with Arcadea.
I was still unwell from the skin infections, dragging myself through work and life with varying levels of grace. At the end of the month, I turned 40 and celebrated with lunch with friends. No existential crisis, just quiet gratitude and a nap.
Creatively, I produced several large self-portraits and works for Saatchi Art online—art that felt both confronting and grounding, like holding a mirror up to a version of myself that survives things.
May: Protest, Press, and a Very Good Yarden
May was big. We organised a protest outside City Hall to raise the profile of the Save the National Glass Centre campaign. We got strong press coverage and made it very difficult for decision-makers to ignore the depth of public feeling.
I churned out social media posts like a woman possessed.
The yarden came into its own this month—plants thriving, animals visiting, moments of peace that felt almost radical. I did more photography sessions for Equal Arts and took part in the Late Shows with Arcadea Disability Arts, which reminded me how powerful visibility and access can be.
June: Beamish Joy and Cyanotype Everything
June gifted us a win: I won a year’s Beamish pass. We took my nieces and had a genuinely brilliant time—photos, laughter, shared memories. The kind that sustains you later.
Save the National Glass Centre delivered a presentation at City Hall. I handled comms from home because my fibromyalgia was flaring. The yarden looked spectacular. I helped Phil with more YouTube recording—though my health meant it wasn’t my best work.
I released my wet cyanotype lesson online, collected objects from the beach to print on, did a day of lantern-building training, and led several photo walks for Equal Arts. Too much? Probably. But momentum is a seductive thing.
July: Hedgehogs and Michelin Stars
July brought hedgehogs to the yarden. Two of them. Named Duck and Roll. This alone made the month worthwhile.
I continued protest art with Arcadea, made cyanotype lanterns to practice new skills, and travelled with Phil to see his family for a wedding anniversary. We ate at our first Michelin-star restaurant, which was both delicious and deeply surreal.
I also completed more commercial photography for Equal Arts, balancing joy, work, and the quiet hum of chronic pain.
August: Babies, Carnival Paper, and Accidental Fashion
August saw my best friend have her second baby—tiny new life amid ongoing chaos. I made more protest art, more cyanotype lanterns and wreaths, and discovered carnival papers wet-strength tissue paper. A revelation. Genuinely thrilling. This is what excites me now.
I fashioned an outfit from my 3D sculptural cyanotype artworks, because why not? Took my niece swimming and showed her the public artwork I made back in 2012, still proudly on display. Longevity feels good.
There were ice cream designs, ice lolly collaborations, and newspaper and BBC work for Save the National Glass Centre. A busy, strange, satisfying month.
September: One-Eyed Sandwiches and Storms
September included a YouTube short about one-eyed sandwiches (don’t ask), more commercial photography, and a series of toned cyanotype works. The Save the National Glass Centre campaign continued to dominate my comms brain.
Arcadea moved to a new building. I had several brutal fibromyalgia flare-ups as seasonal storms rolled in. Weather remains one of my biggest trigger factors—a reminder that my body listens to the atmosphere more closely than I do.
October: Bowling, Cyanotype Dolls’ Houses, and Cats
October brought continued work with Arcadea, including a bowling trip. I renovated a toy house using cyanotype on carnival papers, looked after a friend’s cat, made collages, and started working one-to-one with a family.
There was Halloween. There was more Save the NGC work. There were portraits for Equal Arts. A month of small joys stitched together with effort.
November: Flare-Ups and Keeping Going Anyway
November was punctuated by more weather-triggered fibromyalgia flare-ups, but I mostly kept pace with projects. I did interviews with students, taught workshops, made transient collages, and handled comms for another highly successful Save the National Glass Centre public meeting.
Sometimes “success” looks like simply showing up. This month was that.
December: Agar, Spain, and Soft Landings
December continued much the same: Arcadea, Equal Arts, one-to-one work, and more flare-ups. I made an agar printing plate and a series of prints, including bioplastic agar works that felt quietly hopeful.
I attended the Arcadea Christmas party, then travelled to Spain with Phil and my nieces to stay with my parents. It was wonderful. Warm. Restorative. I only had one or two bad days the entire time—a small miracle.
So… Was It a Free Fall?
Yes. But also no.
2025 was exhausting, fragmented, and often painful. It was also creative, defiant, and filled with small acts of care—for others and, occasionally, for myself. It wasn’t a year of grand resolutions or dramatic transformations. It was a year of persistence. Of making things anyway. Of showing up sick, tired, cynical, and still somehow hopeful.
If this were a clip show, it wouldn’t be slick or triumphant. It would be messy. Blue-stained. Full of half-finished projects, protest banners, hedgehogs, and agar plates.
But it would be honest.
And sometimes, that’s enough.