Seedpods, Scars and Starting Again: What my Hysterectomy recovery taught me about transformation

There are moments in life when you know a chapter is closing.

Not the small, everyday kind. The big ones. The ones that quietly divide your life into before and after.

You might be experiencing an unexpected change in your life: a career shift, the end of a relationship, a child starting school, a medical diagnosis, or a decision that feels both right and terrifying. No matter the situation, you can feel it physically. There's a sense of vulnerability and exposure, along with the realisation that something fundamental is shifting.

For me, that moment was my hysterectomy.

It was necessary for me. I had always suffered from horrible periods that often kept me from leaving the house. Two emergency C-sections left my uterine wall so thin that it was no longer safe for me to have more children. In that moment, I found myself grappling with uncertainty about whether I wanted more children after my second. The advice not to have any more was a surprising mix of relief and sorrow. It felt like a gentle nudge, granting me the permission I didn’t know I needed to stop. Yet, there was an underlying bittersweetness in knowing that if my heart were to change, I would no longer have that choice. It made me reflect on the complex nature of decision-making and the weight of choices that shape our lives in profound ways. During the surgery, the doctors found extensive scar tissue in my abdomen due to multiple procedures aimed at ensuring the safe delivery of my babies and my own survival. This damage had been quietly ignored for too long, as I didn’t have the time to address it during the busy early stages of motherhood.

When I woke up from my surgery for my hysterectomy, I felt relief.

I experienced an overwhelming sense of relief knowing that I would no longer have to face unexpected surgeries related to childbirth. The weight of uncertainty that loomed over me, forcing me to consider medical options for improving my quality of life during menstruation, finally lifted. No longer would I need to endure periods for the sake of baby-making, which meant my body could finally release the tight grip of tension it had held in anticipation of the monthly pain. It felt like a burden had been lifted, allowing me to embrace a new chapter of freedom and comfort.

But relief does not cancel vulnerability.

Recovery stripped away everything I once took for granted. I couldn’t bend down, lift even the lightest objects, or drive. Just getting out of bed and making my way to the bathroom felt monumental. The simple act of folding laundry became a daunting task, nearly impossible to face. Pain would often spike, leaving me gasping for breath, while a wave of anxiety washed over me, threatening to pull me under. In those vulnerable moments, I felt the weight of my fragility and recognised how quickly life could unravel without the embrace of support and help from others... and that is a very humbling place to be.

When you are in recovery, you lack the energy to engage with the noise of the world around you. You can't afford to doom-scroll or bear the weight of every global crisis. Instead, focus on the simplest aspects of life: sit up, stand, breathe, walk, and rest.

The experience anchored me in the things that truly matter and opened my eyes to how much I had taken my body for granted. It had tirelessly and silently navigated the challenges of pregnancies, the miraculous moments of childbirth, the trials of surgeries, and the enduring waves of pain over countless years. I pressed on, much like so many women do, until my body finally brought me to a halt, making me confront the limits I had overlooked for far too long.

What does my hysterectomy have to do with my art practice?

I often find myself discussing seedpods, as they serve as remarkable vessels of life. These natural structures not only protect the seeds within but also cradle them until the right moment for release. Once they have fulfilled their purpose, seedpods seldom remain flawless; their surfaces can become cracked and twisted from the pressures of growth. Some bear scars that tell the story of their journey through harsh weather or encounters with animals, while others have an asymmetrical form that adds to their uniqueness. Many seedpods may appear almost broken, showcasing the beauty in their imperfection and resilience as they transition from protection to propagation.

And yet, those marks are not flaws but rather evidence. Evidence that life was carried, that something was held, and that something was released.

I embarked on my seedpod journey in those tender early days when my children were babies. During countless long nights spent feeding them, I found solace in painting. It was my anchor keeping me grounded, present, and, most importantly, sane. Art became an extension of my motherhood; it was my lifeline in the chaos, allowing me to remain connected to the moment even when everything felt overwhelming.

But as my children grew and life began to whirl around us at a frantic pace, I lost touch with that initial spark. What was once a necessity, a lifeblood, transformed into something I chose to do rather than something that held me together. The urgency that once pulsed through my art began to fade, and with it, the tender connections that had fueled my creativity blurred into the background.

During my recovery, I often found myself sitting in silence for long, stretched moments. My instinct was to seek distraction, grabbing for movies, endlessly scrolling through my phone, or filling the air around me with noise. Yet, none of these distractions provided the solace I craved. As the pain intensified, a tide of anxiety rose within me, further complicating my efforts to find peace.

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Just as I did so many years ago, history is repeating itself, and I find myself picking up a seedpod once more. In that simple act, I seek the same solace I discovered during those early days of motherhood, a time filled with both wonder and uncertainty. The familiar weight of the seedpod in my hand stirs memories of quiet moments and profound love, reminding me of the bittersweet journey I've travelled since then.

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I once ran a workshop where a woman spent an hour carefully painting her seedpod. At the end, she said to me, kindly and without malice, “I’m really happy with this. But how do you justify painting seedpods?”

Her question lingered in my mind for a long time. It puzzled me because no one had ever asked me such a seemingly simple question before. I was surprised to see someone take pleasure in turning a seedpod into her own journal entry, yet she still felt the need to justify the time she spent on the creation.

I know she did not mean to challenge my thought process, but it did. It exposed something about the world we live in. Everything must be justified. Everything must produce. Everything must lead somewhere measurable.

For a moment, I questioned myself... How do I justify painting seedpods?

After I've had my surgery and am on the way to recovery, I know the answer.

I remembered that I do not paint, photograph, or turn seedpods into prints to justify an outcome. I paint them because the act itself settles my nervous system. Because sitting with something small and imperfect and giving it attention brings me back to myself. I justify it because it roots me and reconnects me with my inner life. In a world obsessed with productivity, choosing presence is quietly radical.

And maybe that is the invitation here for you.

If you are in a season of change, if you are feeling exposed or uncertain or physically or emotionally cracked open, you do not need to justify the small things that steady you.

You do not need to justify resting.

You do not need to justify asking for help.

You do not need to justify starting again.

You do not need to justify doing something simply because it brings you back to yourself.

This chapter of my life is not solely about loss; it is not just about what has been taken away. It is about integration and honouring what my body has carried. It is about accepting the scars as part of my design. The seedpod does not apologise for splitting open, nor does it defend its imperfections; it has fulfilled its purpose and stands as evidence of life. So here I am, in this new season, slower, softer, and more aware of my limits. I am more grateful for small achievements and renewed in my love for the quiet act of transformation.

If you are standing at the edge of your own before and after, I hope you know this:

What feels like an ending may also be a returning.

Not to who you were, but to what genuinely grounds you.