✨ About ✨
WHO I AM
I was adopted as a baby and raised by kind, loving parents who didn't quite know what to do with a daughter who climbed trees, talked to ghosts, and preferred making things to fitting in. I spent my childhood feeling like I was missing an instruction manual everyone else had been born with—some secret code for belonging that I'd never received.
For years, I believed the problem was me. That I was broken, unfinished, fundamentally wrong. I looked for home everywhere—in relationships, cities, careers, other people's approval. I never found it.
Then I started creating. Painting. Writing. Making worlds where misfits weren't broken—they were seers. Where not fitting in wasn't failure—it was the first sign of awakening. And slowly, slowly, I realised: belonging isn't something you inherit. It's something you create.
My grandad was the first person who truly saw me. He'd watch me and say, "You're making magic, Tinkerbell. Don't stop." When he died, I lost my witness—the one person who believed my weirdness was a gift, not a flaw.
I spent my twenties searching for that feeling again. I moved to London. Tried on identities like costumes. Made beautiful things and sold them, but none of it lasted. Then, during a particularly dark season, I picked up a paintbrush without a plan—and something opened. The paintings that emerged weren't mine. They were coming through me. Symbols I'd never studied. Shapes I'd never seen. Words appearing in languages I didn't speak.
I started researching. Ancient history. Past lives. Reincarnation—not only as one soul in multiple bodies, but also as fragments shared across time, space, and people. And suddenly, everything made sense. I wasn't broken. I was remembering.
Where the Light Gets In didn't start as a novel. It started as a question: What if adoption is a metaphor for how humanity has been severed from its true nature? What if we're all adopted—cut off from our source, searching for connection in a world designed to keep us numb and disconnected? And what if certain people—artists, sensitives, seekers—are waking up and remembering who we really are?
I wrote this book because I needed it to exist. I needed a story that said: Your weirdness is a gift. Your not-fitting is a compass. Your longing for something you can't name is your soul remembering what it knows.
Where the Light Gets In is a work of fiction—but it's woven from truth. From my own journey with belonging. From people I've met along the way who've walked beside me, challenged me, opened portals I didn't know existed. From the words and worlds that came through me, the dreams that wouldn't let me sleep, the inexplicable synchronicities that made me question everything I thought I knew about reality.
This novel is about a young woman who discovers she's not making art—she's channeling activation codes. Frequencies that wake people up. She's part of a secret network of creators scattered across time, weaving humanity back together, one thread at a time.
It's about chosen family, past lives, and the courage to become who you've always been.
Iris isn't me—but she carries pieces of me. Her story isn't mine—but it's made from the same questions, the same longing, the same refusal to accept the world as it pretends to be.
I live in Plymouth, England, where I write, paint, and attempt to translate the invisible into words and images. I'm a mother, a seeker, a recovering people-pleaser learning to trust my own strange vision. I believe in magic that doesn't announce itself. In art as medicine. In the power of telling the truth, even when it doesn't make sense yet.
This is my first novel, but it won't be my last. I have more stories waiting—more threads to follow, more portals to open. If you've found your way here, I don't think it's an accident. I think you're part of the web too.
WHAT I BELIEVE
I believe we're living in a time of mass awakening—and mass suppression. Never have humans been more connected technologically and more isolated spiritually. We scroll, consume, distract ourselves from the ache of disconnection. But some of us can't numb it. Some of us feel the wrongness, the flatness, the greyness of a world designed to keep us asleep.
I believe those of us who feel this aren't broken. We're sensitives. Canaries in the coal mine. Early-warning systems for a species forgetting how to be human.
I believe in soul-fragments—constellations of consciousness shared across time, space, and people. That when you meet someone and feel instant recognition, you're not imagining it. You're remembering. You are pieces of each other. You've woven together before, in other forms, other lives.
I believe belonging isn't inherited—it's created. That adoption (literal or metaphorical) is humanity's core wound: the severance from our source. And that the journey home isn't about finding where we came from—it's about choosing who we become, who we love, who we create with.
I believe art isn't just decoration. It can be activation. Certain paintings, songs, poems, stories carry frequencies that wake people up. That creators aren't just expressing—we're channelling. Translating the invisible into form. Opening portals. Weaving the web back together.
I write to wake people up.
Not in a preachy, self-help way. Not by telling you what to think or how to live. But by creating stories that resonate at a frequency your soul remembers—even if your mind doesn't understand why.
I write for the part of you that knows you're more than this. More than your job, your scrolling, your carefully curated online persona. The part that aches for something real, something true, something that doesn't fit into the boxes society handed you.
I write because I believe we're at a turning point. Humanity can either wake up—remember our creative, connected, loving nature—or sleepwalk into a future where we're fully managed, monetised, and cut off from our souls. And I believe art is the antidote. Not all art—but art made with intention. Art that doesn't serve commerce or distraction, but consciousness.
I write to remind you: You're not alone. You're not crazy. What you're feeling is real. And there are others like you, scattered across the world, waking up, creating, remembering, weaving the web back together.
If my work activates something in you—a memory, a recognition, a sudden knowing—that's not an accident. That's the frequency doing what it's meant to do.
WHO I WRITE FOR
I write for anyone who's ever felt like they don't belong.
For the adoptees—literal and metaphorical—who've spent their lives searching for home in other people's eyes.
For the sensitives who feel too much and have been told it's a weakness, not a gift.
For the artists who create because they have to, not because it's practical or profitable.
For the seekers who've always known there's more to reality than what we've been taught—who've caught glimpses of other timelines, heard music that wasn't playing, felt soul-deep recognition with strangers.
For the ones who are tired of pretending. Tired of performing. Tired of numbing the ache of disconnection with scrolling, shopping, substances, surface-level connection.
For readers who crave depth. Who want stories that don't just entertain—they activate. Who aren't afraid of magic, mystery, or the messy, non-linear journey of becoming whole.
If you've ever stood in front of a painting and cried without knowing why...
If you've ever met someone and felt you've known them across lifetimes...
If you've ever created something and felt it came through you, not from you...
This book is for you.
You're not broken. You're remembering.
And you're exactly where you're meant to be.