My Story

The Girl Who Loved to Draw

When I was little, I loved drawing. Every time I held a pencil, the world around me became quiet—it was just me, the paper, and that small joy of creating something that didn't exist before.

But my parents had different dreams for me. They believed that art was a dead end, a beautiful but impractical dream. So I studied math instead—because numbers, they said, had a future.

"I learned how to solve equations, but I slowly forgot how to draw happiness."

Years later, I visited my old school. There, on the wall of the hallway, I saw one of my old drawings—still hanging, still smiling back at me. It felt like meeting a younger version of myself I had abandoned. I stood there for a long time, thinking: maybe that was the last time I was truly me.

A Life That Wasn't Mine

Then life unfolded in the way it often does—I got married and became a mother. My days became filled with the beautiful chaos of raising children, each with their own unique needs and rhythms.

It was a journey full of joy—school runs that turned into conversations, bedtime stories that became our rituals, small victories that made my heart swell. I loved every moment of it, and I didn't want it any other way.

"When you're so deeply immersed in loving your children, you don't notice the quiet parts of yourself slowly fading into the background."

I poured all my energy into helping them grow, learn, and thrive—and I was happy doing it. I didn't feel like I was missing anything. The thought of needing time for myself didn't even cross my mind.

"I used to think being a mother was enough—until one day I realized I had forgotten there was more to me."

There were days I looked at my reflection and barely recognized her. I was still the same person, but I had faded behind everyone else's needs. The distance from my old passions, from the working world, from myself—it all felt like a quiet, endless winter.

The Day Everything Changed

One rainy winter afternoon in Sydney, I walked into a small cat café. It was warm inside, filled with the soft hum of conversation and the gentle purring of cats.

That's when I saw him—a Sphynx cat, sitting quietly in the corner. He wasn't like the others. While the fluffy ones played and napped without worry, he stayed half-hidden, shivering slightly in the cold. His big eyes watched everyone with curiosity and hesitation—he wanted to join, but something held him back.

"In that fragile creature, I saw a reflection of my own heart—longing for warmth, yet afraid to step forward."

I couldn't take him home. But that moment stayed with me long after I left the café.

The Return to Drawing

Days later, I sat down at my table, picked up a pencil, and started drawing again. At first, it was just the Sphynx I remembered—those sharp lines, that fragile beauty, those searching eyes. Then I realized: I wasn't just drawing a cat. I was drawing myself.

Every sketch became a quiet conversation with my soul. Every curve reminded me that I was still here—imperfect, tired, but alive.

"I wanted to draw that cat, but what I really wanted was to find the part of me that could still feel."

And little by little, I did.

What This Space Means

This place—my drawings, my small stories—is not about perfection. It's about finding light in ordinary days, even when life feels heavy. It's about cats, but also about love, patience, and rediscovering yourself after years of being lost.

"No matter how chaotic your life feels, there's always a small corner of peace waiting for you—sometimes, it begins with a single line on paper."

You don't have to love cats. You don't have to be an artist. You just have to have something—anything—that makes your heart soften.

Because that, I believe, is where healing begins.

Welcome home.