
As I sit here reflecting on the last six years, it feels almost surreal to say that this chapter of my life is coming to a close. What began as a tentative step back into education has turned into a journey of deep growth—personally, professionally, creatively, and politically. For those of you who have been with me since the early days of blogging about our home education journey, you’ll know that learning has always been woven into the fabric of my life. But this past six years has brought about a transformation I never expected. One that has shaped not only who I am as a person, but also how I approach my work, my activism, and my passion for photography.
The Beginning of the Journey
Six years ago, I made the decision to go back into education. It wasn’t an easy decision—I was juggling work, home education, and the everyday demands of life. But something inside me knew it was time to carve out a new path for myself. At the time, I felt a deep need to explore photography, to challenge myself creatively, and to learn how to tell stories with my camera. Looking back now, it’s amazing to think that this journey began as a quiet thought in the back of my mind—one I wasn’t even sure I had the right to pursue.
My home education journey was a huge part of what motivated me. Watching my own children learn in an environment where creativity and curiosity were encouraged inspired me to take a similar approach to my own learning. I wanted to dive into topics that mattered, challenge the status quo, and not only learn—but use that knowledge to make an impact.
From Photographer to Visual Journalist
When I started, I thought the journey would simply be about becoming a better photographer. I wanted to learn how to use my camera properly, to capture moments with more skill and intention. But as time went on, my path shifted in ways I never expected. Photography, once just a way to document life, became the foundation for something far bigger—a gateway into visual journalism.
It’s incredible to think how far things have come. What began as a passion for taking photos developed into an ability to tell full stories—not just through images, but also through video, writing, and research. I never imagined I’d go from shooting eBay product photos to creating short-form narrative documentaries or writing articles with facts, figures, and ethical framing.
The camera became more than a tool. It became a way to explore, investigate, and narrate stories about resilience, empowerment, and injustice. That evolution—from photographer to visual journalist—has changed me. It still surprises me.

The Palestinian Flag: Why I Took It On Stage
This week, I graduated—and I took the Palestinian flag with me on stage.
It wasn’t for show. It wasn’t performative. It was a deliberate, deeply personal act—one rooted in six years of growth, grief, defiance, and solidarity.
The truth is, my decision to pursue a Master’s degree was directly influenced by Palestine. During my BA, I watched Gaza being bombed again and again, and I felt paralysed. I didn’t yet have the tools to respond with the weight and care that the situation deserved. I wanted to speak up, but I didn’t know how to do it properly. I was overwhelmed by the complexity, but underwhelmed by my own ability to do anything beyond feeling. That powerlessness stayed with me—and became fuel.
I came back to education because I wanted to do more than care. I wanted to document. To uncover. To create visual work—through photography and videography—that could carry emotional truth and political weight. I wanted to learn how to tell stories that held institutions accountable and honoured the people living through occupation, dispossession, and violence.
Over the past six years, I’ve worked alongside Palestine activists in the UK. I’ve photographed protests, filmed speeches, documented vigils. I’ve listened, observed, and tried to capture the emotion behind the banners—the generational grief, the resistance, the fierce joy in standing together. I’ve also brought that same energy into the studio, where storytelling lives in the eyes, the gestures, the tension between what’s said and what’s felt.
But the turning point for me wasn’t just here. It was watching the Palestinian journalists in Gaza. Young, often unpaid, often risking everything. They didn’t have the luxury of neutrality. They documented while the bombs were falling. They died with their press vests on. Their bravery, their storytelling, their refusal to stop—even when the world looked away—shaped me more than any textbook ever could.
They taught me that journalism isn’t just about capturing what’s happening. It’s about standing where it matters. It’s about carrying the story when others bury it.
So when I walked across that stage, holding the Palestinian flag, it wasn’t symbolic. It was sacred. It was for the journalists who’ve been silenced. For the activists who trusted me. For every child I’ve seen named on a placard. For every parent still searching for justice.
It was for my daughter—named after the olive trees of Palestine—whose name carries both rootedness and resistance.
And it was for the version of me who once held her camera but stayed silent. I’m not silent anymore.
I carry Gaza in my work. Always. And I always will.
Challenges and Triumphs
These six years haven’t been easy. Balancing study with work, parenting, and constant financial pressure often felt overwhelming. I worked seven days a week—studying during the week and working at Andrew Wood Photography Boudoir studio on weekends. I’m pretty sure the kids have almost forgotten what I look like!
Living off student loans was incredibly difficult. My part-time job helped, but it was still a constant juggle. And then there were things like my gear getting stolen. That felt like a massive setback. But even then, strangers on Instagram sent kindness—a box of CBD tea, words of encouragement, solidarity I’ll never forget.
The support from people online, especially those who’ve followed me from the beginning, has been incredible. You cheered me on when I was invisible elsewhere. You reminded me I wasn’t alone. That meant everything.
And there were triumphs, too. I started exploring themes of empowerment, resilience, and activism in ways I never imagined. Each project taught me something new—about the world and myself. Whether I was working on social issues, photographing with purpose, filming with honesty, or writing from a place of truth—I kept growing. I could feel it.
The People Who Helped Shape My Journey
This journey wasn’t just mine. So many people helped shape it.
Anne, my first lecturer, was only with me for a term but left a lasting impression. She was the first to really believe in me. Kevin Linnane guided me through some of the tougher parts of the course. I owe him a lot.
Shaun Baggaley, Director at Oldham Library and Art Gallery, gave me the opportunity to photograph the restoration of the old library—a project that now forms part of Oldham’s documented history. He later commissioned me to photograph all the libraries and community groups across Oldham for their new website. That trust meant so much.
Joshi Herrmann from The Manchester Mill let me tag along during the early days of the pandemic. That hands-on exposure to reporting made me fall in love with visual journalism in a whole new way. He believed in me before I had any formal training.
The Sophie Hayes Foundation allowed me to photograph the Freedom Quilt Project—another deeply meaningful piece of work.
And I can’t forget Ronke Joseph, my childminder and absolute lifeline. Without her, none of this would have been possible. From early mornings to late nights and weekends, she was always there for my kids. She’s become like a second mum to the twins and a constant in our lives.
Then there’s Sharron Lovell, my Master’s supervisor. One of the most intelligent, driven, compassionate human beings I’ve ever met. She pushed me harder than anyone else, but always with care. Her guidance is a huge part of why I made it this far.
Most importantly, I want to thank the people who trusted me to tell their stories. Sophie the peg loomer. Chrissie, who let me share her SEND and home ed journey. Oldham Street Angels who shared their work looking after people in the Oldham night time economy and the volnerable on the street. The activists, the mothers, the campaigners. Every single person who opened up their lives to me—you are the heart of this work.
Lessons Learnt
Six years in education—especially while parenting and working—teaches you a lot.
I’ve learnt that storytelling isn’t just about the medium. It’s about the connection—between you and the subject, you and the audience, you and the truth.
I’ve learnt that writing is as important as visuals. In fact, documenting my ideas, plans, and reflections became essential to the creative process. Writing used to feel secondary, but now it’s central to how I tell stories.
I’ve learnt the value of organisation. I thought I was organised because of life with twins—but this journey demanded a new level. Project timelines, file management, client shoots, research—it all had to come together.
I’ve learnt to get comfortable being uncomfortable. That’s where the real growth happens. Some of my best work came from moments of doubt or fear. It taught me to trust the process.
I even fell in love with research—something I never expected. Finding the facts and context that give stories weight has become one of my favourite parts of the job.
But the biggest lesson? You never grow alone. Every step forward came from someone’s belief, someone’s kindness, someone’s trust.
A Pause Before the Next Chapter
After six years of relentless work and study, I’m finally giving myself permission to pause. The house needs attention. My brain needs rest. The kids need presence. I need stillness. Just for a little while.
But this isn’t the end.
It’s just a comma in the sentence. A turning of the page.
What comes next might not be fully written yet—but I know it’ll involve community, creativity, truth-telling, and impact. I’ve built the foundation. The stories are still coming.
To everyone who walked this journey with me—thank you. From the bottom of my heart.
This graduation, this flag, this chapter… it belongs to all of us.














