Mid Life Move or Mid Life Crisis. Artist at 45.

I am pushing fifty. Ouch.
Well. Not quite yet. But close enough to feel it.

So naturally, I decided to switch careers and step into one of the hardest industries to “make it” in. Of course I did.

If you have followed me for a while, you will know I have always been creative. Hello Captain + Co era. That version of me was creative in a different way. But still, it was always there. Something in me has always been drawn to making.

At 45, I dared to dream again. And more importantly, I dared to try. I picked up the paintbrushes and decided to give painting a red hot crack.

Midlife crisis? Maybe.
Wanting something new? Perhaps.
Finally doing what I always wanted to do? Absolutely.

I always wanted to be an artist.

But when I finished high school in the 90s, just after recovering from a questionable bowl cut and trying to figure out who I even was, I was told, directly and indirectly, that art was not a “real job.”

So I did what many of us do. I pushed it down. Locked it away. And went on to collect a few degrees in more “practical” things, followed by an office career. Later, stay-at-home-mum life. Life moved on.

But something in me never fully switched off.

And for a long time, I think I believed there would be a moment where everything would feel official. Clear. Decided. Like someone would hand me permission and say: now you are an artist.

But that moment never came.

Instead, it has been quieter than that. Slower. More uncertain. And honestly, at times, deeply uncomfortable.

I did not start here.

There were years where I made things but did not fully believe in them. Years where I supported other artists more easily than I supported my own voice. Years where I could see beauty everywhere except, sometimes, in what I was creating myself.

And still, I kept painting.

I did not always understand why. I just knew I could not stop noticing things. Colour. Light. The way nature shifts without asking for attention. The way a sky can hold an entire emotional language if you stay still long enough to see it.

That is where it started for me. Not with a career decision, but with attention.

Then something clicked. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just quietly. More of a pop than a bang. But clearly enough that I could not ignore it anymore. And did not want to ignore it anymore.

So I started. Not when I was ready. Not when it was perfect. Not when I had it all figured out. Just me. A desk in the garage. Cheap acrylic paints. Kmart canvases. Stolen hours between freelance work, kids, and life.

At the beginning, I was so unsure of myself. So underconfident. So lost in the how, what, when, and why.

I had no formal training. No real foundation. Just high school art. even that was a very alternative experience with a wonderfully unconventional teacher, and not much structure around styles or technique. But I knew I had to begin somewhere.

So I made work.

At first, I tried to imitate others. Not to copy, but to understand. To find flow. To learn the language of paint. It was all abstract. And honestly, it was not good. Oh no.

But it was necessary.

I took online colour courses and fell in love with colour itself, especially unexpected combinations. The less obvious, the more I was drawn in. I researched. I practised. I experimented. I changed direction again and again. I thought I had found a style, only to realise it felt too close to someone else’s work. So I shifted again. And again.

There are cupboards full of mistakes. Drawers full of work that did not make it. Pieces painted over more times than I can count. And a storage space full of half-finished works. And still, slowly, something started to form.

Then I did something that felt terrifying at the time. I shared it. So nervous. So unsure. So full of self-doubt. And then I kept going. I painted more. I shared more. I learned. I failed. I adjusted. I kept returning.

And somehow, I am still here.

I have built a life around many roles, but this one feels different. Less like something I am performing, more like something I am finally allowing.

My studio is at home. It was our garage, then our guest space, and now it is my calm, my colour, my space. It looks out across Tasmania’s changing landscape. Mountains, sky, clouds and colours that never repeat themselves in quite the same way.

It has become a kind of quiet anchor for me. A place where I return, again and again, to colour and form and the question of what I am actually trying to say.

Still learning. Still experimenting. Still pushing for something truer.

I used to think I had to be “ready” to call myself an artist.

Now I think you become one by continuing.

By making work even when you are unsure.
By noticing what will not leave you alone.
By staying in the conversation long enough for it to change you.

This is where I am now.

Not at the beginning. Not at the end.

Somewhere in the middle of becoming.

And I think that is enough.

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