The tools have changed, but the need to create never really left.
I used to paint.
For years, if I went too long without picking up a brush, I genuinely felt as though I might burst.
Painting was how I made sense of things.
It was where I emptied my mind, covered large canvases in bold strokes, and, more often than not, covered the front of my jeans in paint too.
A few of my paintings are still hanging in friends’ homes back in Australia.
At one point, a gallery even offered to represent my work.
For a brief moment, I considered taking it seriously, before accepting what, at the time, felt like the opportunity of a lifetime: a role at Australian Vogue.
Looking back, my path has never been particularly straight.
I studied political journalism, spent a short time studying criminal law, before finding my way back to design.
Like many creative people, I don’t think the path is ever quite linear.
When you’re young, it can take years to discover not only what you want to do, but who you want to become.
We often expect life to be a straight line, but more often than not, it’s winding and that’s probably how it’s meant to be.
These days, I rarely reach for a paintbrush.
Instead, I write.
Writing has become what painting once was for me.
The words arrive much the same way the paint used to, quickly, instinctively, almost faster than I can keep up.
There is something deeply cathartic about putting thoughts onto a page.
Once I begin, they simply pour out.
I don’t know if every piece is particularly remarkable, but I do know how grateful I am that you’ve chosen to read them.
Thank you for following along.
Most days for me are very full, almost overflowing.
I’m designing products, working through concepts, tending the garden, being a mum, hopping from one Zoom meeting to another, or thinking about the next creation for The Quiet Botanist or the other lovely brand I work for.
Writing has become a quiet pause between all of those things.
A place to gather my thoughts, much like wandering through a nursery and coming home with another plant I probably don’t have room for.
Reading has always offered that same feeling of calm.
So has collecting beautiful words.
Although I have a journalism degree tucked away somewhere, I’ve certainly had moments where I’ve questioned whether I could really write.
Like many people, self-doubt has a habit of appearing just when you don’t need it.
For years I’ve also written every caption for The Quiet Botanist.
In the beginning, someone else helped, but over time it quietly became my job alone.
I often share the words of writers, poets, and thinkers I admire.
Curating their wisdom feels creative in its own right.
I love collecting thoughtful quotations just as much as I love discovering beautiful imagery to accompany them.
Of course, we’re a retail brand, so every now and then I’ll mention a candle, a soap, or a new collection.
But more often than not, I’m simply sharing whatever has inspired me that day, or perhaps what I think we all might need a little more of.
Writing is often the very first thing I do each morning before I dive into the rest of my projects.
Before the meetings, the emails, the designing, I sit quietly with a cup of tea and write.
In many ways, it has felt like returning to an old friend I hadn’t realized I’d missed.
Perhaps that’s why these essays feel so natural to write.
They aren’t something I have to force.
They simply arrive.
As I finish writing this, I’m sitting here with my laptop balanced in front of me, watching the cursor blink as these final words appear on the screen.
Years ago, I would have ended a day with paint under my fingernails.
Today, it’s a page full of words instead.
They’re simply two different ways of making sense of the world.
One with color.
One with sentences.
And perhaps, at their heart, they were never all that different.
x Rebecca
