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Although having my work displayed at the University of Reading was a huge moment, one that made me feel recognised and appreciated, the period that followed was one of confusion and reflection. I wouldn’t even call it being lost — it was more like trying to find my feet again.

After The Boy and the Heron unveiling, life didn’t suddenly become easy or straightforward. During that same time, I was working two jobs, trying to make sense of things, trying to put money on the table, and still finding my place in all of it. I was applying for jobs, thinking about the future, and wondering what was next. There were long nights where I’d come home tired but still try to paint or come up with new ideas, even if I barely had the energy. It felt like a chokehold sometimes, a push and pull between work, art, and personal growth.

Around then, my partner and I would have these long conversations about life and direction. She’d always ask, “Why don’t you just keep doing art?” She said it so casually, but it stuck. I was torn between trying to be “sensible” and going for what really mattered to me. At one point, I was seriously considering becoming a data analyst, and I went through that phase of endless tutorials — learning Python, watching coding videos, reading about cybersecurity, AI, and all that. It was exhausting. It felt like I was just spinning my wheels, doing what I thought I should be doing rather than what I wanted to be doing.

This was about three or four months after the Black History Month exhibition, and I wasn’t making much art at all. I was in that heavy, uncertain space that so many people feel after graduating. You’re told, “This is what a man should do,” or “This is what success looks like,” and it becomes so easy to start comparing yourself to others. I wasn’t in the best headspace, but through all of it, I was still searching.

Looking back now, I can see that time was essential. It taught me patience, organisation, and how to manage both time and money as an artist. It made me realise how easy it is to fall into survival mode after school ends, and how hard it is to keep faith in what feels uncertain. But those lessons were necessary. They made me sharper, more grounded, and more intentional.

I started learning how to budget properly, how to be resourceful, and how to stretch what I had instead of waiting for the “perfect setup.” I began to see that limitations weren’t barriers — they were creative tools. I kept thinking about old-school Game Boy and PlayStation 2 games. They had restrictions, limited colours, shapes, and frames, but those limits forced incredible creativity. The same applies to art. A budget, limited materials, or a small studio space aren’t weaknesses. They’re frameworks for invention.

Even in football, the same truth shows up. If I said to you, “England versus Brazil, who’s going to win?” you’d probably say Brazil. And that’s not to make fun of England, but it says a lot. In England, the youth academies are world-class. Kids train on perfect pitches with professional coaches, sports science experts, nutrition plans, and state-of-the-art equipment. They’re taught tactics, positioning, movement — everything.

Now look at Brazil. Many of those players start off training on uneven pitches, barefoot, with makeshift goals and torn footballs. Some have never seen a proper academy. Yet when those two teams meet, we all know who we expect to play with the most heart, the most creativity, the most raw passion. Even before the 2024 World Cup, if I said Brazil versus Germany or Brazil versus Spain, nine times out of ten, you’d still say Brazil.

That says everything. It shows that the difference isn’t in the facilities, it’s in the fire. It’s not about who has the best setup, but who’s got the love and hunger for what they do. And that’s the same thing with art. You might not have the newest brushes, the biggest studio, or the most expensive materials, but that doesn’t mean you’re behind. Let your passion bleed through what you have right now.

And yes, I believe money in the right hands is a blessing. This isn’t to say, “Don’t spend on your practice.” If you can afford more, do it. But if you’re in a space where you can only afford what you can afford, don’t let that hold you back. Keep creating. When you reach a stage where you have access to more, keep that same hunger and keep that passion burning.

Because if you have passion, dedication, and a love for your craft, and then you combine that with access to better tools and opportunities, you become unstoppable. Whether it’s in football or art, it’s the will to win that makes the difference. It’s the willingness to fight for your vision, no matter what pitch, club, or country you’re placed in. That’s what turns potential into purpose.

So even though that time felt uncertain, it wasn’t wasted. It was a season of exploration, reflection, and faith. It taught me how to work with what I had, how to trust the process, and how to see that exploration isn’t the same as being lost.

Now, when I look back, I see that period as a quiet training ground. It was me learning to persevere, to stay grounded, and to keep trusting that God’s plan was unfolding, even if I couldn’t see the full picture. Like in those old superhero movies, the hero always faces that one moment of doubt or defeat before finding the strength to win. It’s never the end, just another part of the story.

That’s what that time was for me. Not the end — just another chapter that shaped the artist and the person I’m becoming.