Flow. That state of full immersion where time melts, concentration is effortless and movements become automatic. For over twenty years, I found “flow” in the operating theatre. The moments before surgery always carried adrenaline: is this the right operation, what if things deviate from plan, what’s the backup plan? But once I started scrubbing, the noise quietened. By knife to skin, I was fully immersed. Or I used to be.

Sometimes in life, things happen. Not for any reason, they just do. In 2022, I was diagnosed and treated for a second breast cancer. I first had breast cancer in 2006, at 38. I was recently separated, going through an acrimonious divorce and was essentially left as a single mum of two small children aged five and seven. That is a story for another time, but I got through that and built a dynamic surgical career. This second cancer was smaller, less aggressive and needed less intense treatment. It had to be easier.

Fatigue. Extreme fatigue. Not what I was anticipating. I had always moved through life with energy and momentum. Suddenly, I couldn’t. It literally made me stop.

Stopping was good. It gave me time to reflect. I realized my “flow” had diminished. I was still (and am, though a little bias here) very good at my work. My work was no longer giving me the same back. Burnout? Highly likely. Long hours, little sleep, constant stress for years and then more recently adult-onset asthma, physical injuries, and the inability to get past numerous blocks to making changes in healthcare for the betterment of patients and providers had caught up. I had to change my life path.

As a child and teenager, I had always loved drawing and painting. An academic scholarship steered me away from this to medicine. Just prior to my second cancer, I rediscovered this joy, and learned that acrylic paints were for real artists, not just children. My wonderful fatigue consultant, aside from pointing out my previous lifestyle was not compatible with healthy living, encouraged me to paint as therapy, to reset my autonomic nervous system.

I watched countless YouTube videos on the couch, pulled myself together, bought some materials and started having a go. Feedback from my Year 10 art teacher was that I was extremely talented but needed to find my own style. Forty years later, I finally got around to working on this.

I love intrigue in art — hidden meaning, motifs, symbols. I want my work to invite people to look closer. I want my art to uplift — to create something for the Eye, Mind and Soul.

My first pieces were around water. I love the sea with its every-changing energy and colour. I used this as the foil for my personal virtues of courage, resilience and hope.

One day I saw the most stunning and unusually shaped rose. From this, over a 12-month period, arose passion, my first big piece of art.

Then my mum, who has also had breast cancer and a brain aneurysm, almost lost her hand to a Buruli ulcer (this is an atypical mycobacterium infection with the bugs carried by foxes and possums). She underwent numerous surgeries performed by one of my excellent plastic surgery colleagues and was in hospital on and off for over 4 months. This inspired Perseverance and Strength. My Dad loved this painting. He used to try and count the number of brushstrokes, but I think it was also how he saw Mum: unstoppable.

At the end of 2024, Dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and it was his turn to be in hospital. Eventually, he never went home. He died in March of 2025. Before he died we talked about his favourite colours and flowers. He loved blue, dark blue like the Air Force uniform he used to wear, and orchids. His passing inspired my Blue Orchid series (more to come on this).

A month later, I was awarded the “Emerging Artist Award” at the Malvern Artist Society 2025 Autumn Exhibition. Dad would have been overjoyed.

Dad’s passing was the final wake up. I’ve always tried to pause and reflect on the question “if I had 5 years to live, would I be doing what I’m doing now?”.

For the first time, my clear answer was “No”.

I once found “flow” in surgery. Now I find it standing in front of a canvas. And somewhere in that transition, I became ANnew.