Some plants only bloom after fire.
I didn’t know that the first time I saw a protea in full bloom after a burn — its petals charred at the edges, but its core absolutely radiant. It felt familiar. Not in a botanical way. In a spiritual one.
In the Khoi San tradition, survival is not just legacy — it's language. It’s the way our people held onto life in the face of erasure. I didn’t know back then how much that history was already living inside me.
Until everything burned.
My marriage was disintegrating under the weight of addiction, trauma, and silence. I had tried everything to fix it — therapy, kindness, logic, faith. But what I didn’t realise was that both of us were clinging to what still looked good. The soft moments. The shared dreams. We were avoiding the full truth — and in doing so, we were going in circles.
The fire came slowly. It started with sleepless nights. Then came the anxiety, the stomach issues, the rage I didn’t know how to name. I started to unravel. And one day, it all came undone. I found myself at emergency services, seeking help. Saying out loud what I had buried for years. Accepting that I couldn’t go back. That the good parts were not enough to build a life on.
I thought that was the end.
But it was only the clearing.
Out of the ash, I began to do what I had never done before: accept help. Stand still. Tell the truth. Let people see me without the performance of strength. And from that space — broken and bare — the seeds began to stir.
Protea Fire: Seeds of Resilience was drawn during this time. It’s not just an artwork. It’s my scar, my symbol, my survival. A reminder that sometimes we have to burn down the illusion of wholeness in order to grow real roots.
The protea doesn’t scatter its seeds unless it’s scorched. I understand that now in a way I never did before.
So if you’re in the fire right now — or just emerging from it — I hope this work gives you a glimpse of what’s possible on the other side.
Even ash is fertile ground.
