So the Kids Don’t See
This self-portrait is more than personal—it’s a quiet monument to mothers everywhere. To the ones who cry behind closed doors, alone in the shower, so their children won’t have to carry the weight. To the ones who hold it together through exhaustion, fear, and love that runs so deep it aches.

Behind the glass, the face is contorted—caught mid-emotion, mid-collapse. Water and tears blur together, dripping down like the unraveling of self. Her hands press against the barrier, not to escape, but to stay upright. The space becomes both sanctuary and prison—a place to fall apart where no one is watching.

This painting speaks to the loneliness of caregiving, the silent labour of emotional resilience. The loss of identity, the daily holding on. It honours the moments that never make it into family photos: the ones where strength is found not in smiling, but in surviving.

So the Kids Don’t See is not about weakness—it is about the quiet courage of those who continue to show up, even when no one sees them break.