British Vogue Viewpoint
I remember getting the call at 7am on a Sunday to tell me I had won the BFC/Vogue Designer Fashion Fund. I couldn't believe it – my friend had told me to manifest it by writing down how it would feel in the weeks leading up to the announcement, but I never thought it would actually happen. It was amazing to be recognised. I couldn't wait for the next chapter, and what more I could achieve with the help of the award.
A few weeks later, the severe facial and head pain began. I wasn't that worried at first: I had experienced similar during my early 20s, when I was diagnosed with a chronic condition called new daily persistent headache (NDPH). Back then, a neurologist had prescribed Botox injections, which really worked, and I went into remission.
This time, though, the pain was different. I had a new, piercing sensation in my temples and I was having issues with my balance. The usual treatments didn't work, and the pain became so severe – I'd described it as an 11 out of 10 on the scale – that I was hospitalised. I was terrified that this could be my reality forever. At that point, my mum said: "I think we need to take you home to the Isle of Man." In some ways, I was relieved. I was living alone in London at the time, and I couldn't look after myself while in that much pain. My senses were really heightened; I became so sensitive to light and sound that I was left pretty much bedbound. I would have meetings from my bed, limiting my screen time to around 30 minutes a day, with the brightness on the lowest setting.
It took me a while to accept that I couldn't work, that I needed to rest to recover. I felt guilty about taking time out, and it was also hard for other people to understand because I looked the same on the outside – our ableist society is always quick to question whether you're making it up.
In many ways, my identity had become wrapped up in my work. Although I find it difficult to talk about my own achievements, in many ways, I was at the peak of my career. After winning the Queen Elizabeth II Award in 2019, I was named a LVMH Prize finalist that year, and won emerging menswear designer of the year at The Fashion Awards. During the pandemic, I cofounded the Emergency Designer Network with fellow designers Phoebe English and Holly Fulton, working with local seamstresses and factories to produce much-needed PPE. When I began experiencing the pain, I had been busy working on an exhibition for the Design Museum, highlighting the environmental and social issues that I had been exploring through my brand.
My focus shifted to how I could get better, taking things day by day. At first, I would go everywhere with earplugs in, a hat and sunglasses on – but I gradually began exposing myself to my triggers, trying to desensitise myself. I would listen to the car radio on the lowest volume, turning it up a notch every month. Eventually, I went outside more, reading in the sunlight and taking short walks to build my strength back up. I began researching the mind-body connection, and how that could support the medical treatment I was still receiving. As I couldn't do much reading on screens, I ordered lots of physical books, including Bessel van der Kolk's The Body Keeps The Score. I came to understand that a traumatic event I'd been through six months before I got ill may have been connected to my physical symptoms. That's when I started adopting practices including yoga, mediation, journalling and qigong to help reregulate my nervous system. I began forest bathing and swimming in the sea, eventually joining a local swimming group – a community of women from all walks of life who have been so crucial to my recovery.
For a long time, the feeling of isolation was really tough. My world got so small – I had to keep my circle to just immediate family and my closest friends because I just didn't have the capacity. I had to grieve my former self and my former life, and figure out how to rebuild myself again. I couldn't have done this without the love and support I have received. I also had to take time to recover mentally; I found eye movement desensitisation and reprocessing (EMDR) therapy really beneficial, helping me to process the traumatic event I had been through, and my experience of chronic pain.
About a year ago, I started to build back up my creative practice again. I began with a ceramics class. I found it healing, something purely pleasurable and unrelated to the work I'd been doing before.
When Bethlem Gallery approached me about an exhibition, it felt like the right time to share what I've been going through. It's actually the first time I've ever created work about my own lived experience. I've cast my body to make life-sized sculptures from porcelain, mixed with PPE in the kiln and lit up from the inside, as well as creating fabric vessels, which have been naturally dyed and appliquéd with illustrations inspired by nature, created with my friend Melissa Kitty Jarram.
I wanted to create this ghostly feeling – during the worst of my illness, I felt like I was a shell of myself. Over time, I've had to slowly fill myself back up. Having learnt about the mind-body connection, I wanted to explore this more holistic approach, working with psychologist Dr Sula Windgassen, who has researched how cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT) and EMDR can help people with physical health conditions, and wrote an essay to accompany my art. The exhibition is entitled This Wild, Achingly Beautiful Place, after a poem that my friend, Eno Mfon, wrote – it's a reference to the incredible Manx landscape that was so central to my recovery. My priorities have changed so much over the past few years: I want to be in nature, grow things and sleep under the stars. I'm not so work-driven; I'm going to take things slow when it comes to reestablishing myself in the fashion world. It's been really great to see other parts of myself develop. I want to be a good daughter, sister and friend.
I'm still living with chronic illness, with a constant low level of pain, but I'm able to lead a full life, filled with joy and laughter. Though I wouldn't wish this experience on anyone else, I wouldn't change it. I see the world completely differently now. I've developed another level of empathy, compassion and patience that I didn't have before. The amount of growth I've made when it comes to my mindset has been so important, and is something that I will hold close for the rest of my life.
I've learnt to appreciate the small things, love unconditionally and to live in the present.
This Wild, Achingly Beautiful Place is at Bethlem Gallery, BR3, from 11 October
Special Thank you to Emily Chan for the support with the piece
I remember getting the call at 7am on a Sunday to tell me I had won the BFC/Vogue Designer Fashion Fund. I couldn't believe it – my friend had told me to manifest it by writing down how it would feel in the weeks leading up to the announcement, but I never thought it would actually happen. It was amazing to be recognised. I couldn't wait for the next chapter, and what more I could achieve with the help of the award.
A few weeks later, the severe facial and head pain began. I wasn't that worried at first: I had experienced similar during my early 20s, when I was diagnosed with a chronic condition called new daily persistent headache (NDPH). Back then, a neurologist had prescribed Botox injections, which really worked, and I went into remission.
This time, though, the pain was different. I had a new, piercing sensation in my temples and I was having issues with my balance. The usual treatments didn't work, and the pain became so severe – I'd described it as an 11 out of 10 on the scale – that I was hospitalised. I was terrified that this could be my reality forever. At that point, my mum said: "I think we need to take you home to the Isle of Man." In some ways, I was relieved. I was living alone in London at the time, and I couldn't look after myself while in that much pain. My senses were really heightened; I became so sensitive to light and sound that I was left pretty much bedbound. I would have meetings from my bed, limiting my screen time to around 30 minutes a day, with the brightness on the lowest setting.
It took me a while to accept that I couldn't work, that I needed to rest to recover. I felt guilty about taking time out, and it was also hard for other people to understand because I looked the same on the outside – our ableist society is always quick to question whether you're making it up.
In many ways, my identity had become wrapped up in my work. Although I find it difficult to talk about my own achievements, in many ways, I was at the peak of my career. After winning the Queen Elizabeth II Award in 2019, I was named a LVMH Prize finalist that year, and won emerging menswear designer of the year at The Fashion Awards. During the pandemic, I cofounded the Emergency Designer Network with fellow designers Phoebe English and Holly Fulton, working with local seamstresses and factories to produce much-needed PPE. When I began experiencing the pain, I had been busy working on an exhibition for the Design Museum, highlighting the environmental and social issues that I had been exploring through my brand.
My focus shifted to how I could get better, taking things day by day. At first, I would go everywhere with earplugs in, a hat and sunglasses on – but I gradually began exposing myself to my triggers, trying to desensitise myself. I would listen to the car radio on the lowest volume, turning it up a notch every month. Eventually, I went outside more, reading in the sunlight and taking short walks to build my strength back up. I began researching the mind-body connection, and how that could support the medical treatment I was still receiving. As I couldn't do much reading on screens, I ordered lots of physical books, including Bessel van der Kolk's The Body Keeps The Score. I came to understand that a traumatic event I'd been through six months before I got ill may have been connected to my physical symptoms. That's when I started adopting practices including yoga, mediation, journalling and qigong to help reregulate my nervous system. I began forest bathing and swimming in the sea, eventually joining a local swimming group – a community of women from all walks of life who have been so crucial to my recovery.
For a long time, the feeling of isolation was really tough. My world got so small – I had to keep my circle to just immediate family and my closest friends because I just didn't have the capacity. I had to grieve my former self and my former life, and figure out how to rebuild myself again. I couldn't have done this without the love and support I have received. I also had to take time to recover mentally; I found eye movement desensitisation and reprocessing (EMDR) therapy really beneficial, helping me to process the traumatic event I had been through, and my experience of chronic pain.
About a year ago, I started to build back up my creative practice again. I began with a ceramics class. I found it healing, something purely pleasurable and unrelated to the work I'd been doing before.
When Bethlem Gallery approached me about an exhibition, it felt like the right time to share what I've been going through. It's actually the first time I've ever created work about my own lived experience. I've cast my body to make life-sized sculptures from porcelain, mixed with PPE in the kiln and lit up from the inside, as well as creating fabric vessels, which have been naturally dyed and appliquéd with illustrations inspired by nature, created with my friend Melissa Kitty Jarram.
I wanted to create this ghostly feeling – during the worst of my illness, I felt like I was a shell of myself. Over time, I've had to slowly fill myself back up. Having learnt about the mind-body connection, I wanted to explore this more holistic approach, working with psychologist Dr Sula Windgassen, who has researched how cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT) and EMDR can help people with physical health conditions, and wrote an essay to accompany my art. The exhibition is entitled This Wild, Achingly Beautiful Place, after a poem that my friend, Eno Mfon, wrote – it's a reference to the incredible Manx landscape that was so central to my recovery. My priorities have changed so much over the past few years: I want to be in nature, grow things and sleep under the stars. I'm not so work-driven; I'm going to take things slow when it comes to reestablishing myself in the fashion world. It's been really great to see other parts of myself develop. I want to be a good daughter, sister and friend.
I'm still living with chronic illness, with a constant low level of pain, but I'm able to lead a full life, filled with joy and laughter. Though I wouldn't wish this experience on anyone else, I wouldn't change it. I see the world completely differently now. I've developed another level of empathy, compassion and patience that I didn't have before. The amount of growth I've made when it comes to my mindset has been so important, and is something that I will hold close for the rest of my life.
I've learnt to appreciate the small things, love unconditionally and to live in the present.
This Wild, Achingly Beautiful Place is at Bethlem Gallery, BR3, from 11 October
Special Thank you to Emily Chan for the support with the piece