Last week I read that the Irish government pays generous amounts of money to people who are willing to move to one of the nation’s remote islands.

Four years ago, my little girl Muffin got sick. I had to leave her at the vet clinic for treatment. I ensured her I would come back, every day, but returning home without her broke my heart.

As you may have read last week, I haven’t been feeling the best. I find it so difficult to see beyond the unpacked boxes, the to do lists, the things I can’t attend because I have so little energy.

I have decided that, instead of focusing on all that hasn’t been done yet, I’m putting my focus on the things that I’m happy about. So today I’m sharing my gratitude list with you.

At the moment I need nearly all my energy to recover from moving house. That frustrates me, because there’s so much to do: unpacking, administration, a few repairs, decorate, getting to know the oven,…

I'm scared to hurt those closest to me by allowing myself to be happy. Does that make any sense?

I have done some shitty things in my life. Made stupid decisions, hurt the ones I love, treated myself poorly, made my friends worry. If I'd choose to, I could fill a lifetime with guilt, regret, and self-hatred.

When I started painting, one in four paintings turned out how I wanted it to. That number has gone up until three out of four.

It’s been a week since I moved in to my new house, and surprisingly (because I’m not good with change) I’m doing quite well.

That moving thing is getting real now. There’s boxes everywhere, and did you know there’s a ton of things that don’t fit into a box? And then of course, there’s the cats.

This weekend I’m turning 45. I have mixed feelings about it.

Last week I had a very interesting conversation with my art teacher.

I deliberately keep my expectations low when I do something, especially when I’m outside of my comfort zone. Organizing a studio sale and inviting more than five people is way outside of my comfort zone.

I have one memory of kindergarten. Our classroom had a table with low rims, and it was filled with clay. You could create whatever you wanted. It was my idea of heaven.

"I have found a solution to all my problems", I messaged my friend C three years ago. "I am getting pink hair." C and I are on the same wavelength as it comes to lighting ourselves up.

I’m always early, to any kind of appointment, even when I know for sure that the person will be late. I can’t help it. It’s an anxiety thing.

I love making lists. And often artists are advised to make a list of all the ideas they get. When I started painting, I jotted down every idea for a new collection, portrait, theme,… all of it.

I have been preparing my exhibition. ‘Between the lines’, it’s called, or ‘Tussen de regels door’ in Dutch. It will consist of 50 portraits of writers.

I’m surrounded by writers. Not real life ones, because that would get a little too crowded in my studio. Portraits.

I’m feeling a little down. My inner critic is shouting that I’m an ungrateful b*tch, because so many good things have been happening in my life lately, and if anything, I should be euphoric.

Last week I tried to move my enormous couch down a narrow staircase on my own. Of course I knew in advance that was a crazy idea. But I attempted anyway.

Five minutes later I rang my neighbor’s door, ashamed and feeling like a failure.

As an artist I’m often told to dream big, and to believe in my art. I try to do that, but last week I had a conversation I never thought to have in the coming ten years. It was epic.