the invisible mother

When I became a mother, I came up against a kind of identity crisis I hadn’t expected. My sense of self, once grounded in independence and creativity, began to blur under the constant demands of caregiving. After my second child was born, I struggled with postpartum blues and an unsettling feeling of being lost — as if I had disappeared inside the very life I had longed for.

In that season, turning the camera on myself became an act of both survival and expression. These self-portraits helped me process emotions I didn’t yet have words for and reminded me that what I was feeling was real. These photos became the spark for this ongoing body of work — Portraits of Motherhood, that gives voice to women and mothers.

There’s an invisibility that seems to settle over women in the thick of motherhood and homemaking — a fading of self that happens not from neglect, but from devotion. So much of a mother’s world revolves around the unseen: the meals prepared, the mental lists constantly running, the tending of emotions, spaces, and people. This was true for me. My home became both my canvas and my cage — a place where my love is evident in every detail, yet rarely felt like art. Over time, this quiet giving made me feel like ghosts within my own home — present everywhere, yet rarely seen.

And yet, within that invisibility, there’s something profound — a beauty and resilience in the way women keep creating meaning, nurturing life, and shaping their families. Still, to be witnessed — to be recognized as more than the hands that fold, cook, and soothe — is something that I, and many mothers long for deeply.

These photographs serve as both documentation and tribute: a way of saying, I see you. You are not invisible.