There’s a story from my childhood I often return to — one that speaks more of me than I ever realised at the time.
My stepfather would try to gather the peacocks in at night, gently herding them to safety. But they didn’t understand. They’d squawk, flap, and take to the trees in protest, not knowing the dangers that waited in the dark — the foxes below, the cold, the risk. I see now that I was just like them. Bright, vivid, alive… but unsure where it was safe to land. Where I could show my colours and where I needed to hide them.
I grew up exploring grand English houses and quiet gardens, dancing between beauty and silence. A housekeeper’s daughter with the eyes of a dreamer. I’ve since lived many lives — in Australia, in creativity, in survival. I’ve danced through samba rhythms and walked through betrayal. I’ve created creams that melt like mousse, boxes that carry beauty at 30,000 feet, and rituals that bring soul back into luxury.
Now, like those peacocks, I’ve learned when to descend and when to rise.
This is my season of flight.
This is the garden reopening.
This is Peacock Rising.
Welcome to my world.
