Three years ago, life became about as overwhelming as it's ever been. We had just welcomed our second child — my little boy, Rafe — and we were meant to be moving into a new home. We'd paid a building company a large sum of money to carry out renovation works so it would be ready for our growing family.

It never happened. The excuses kept coming, and then they simply disappeared — our money too — and we were left with a house we couldn't live in, a newborn baby and a two-year-old.

As a child, I spent countless hours in my own world, doodling away — animals were always my favourite subject. From a young age I've adored them, becoming a vegetarian at the age of nine and drawing posters of animals that I put up around our village.

Somewhere in growing up I set it all aside and ended up pursuing a different, corporate career. Re-finding art gave me a way to switch off — an hour where the worry went quiet and there was only the paper and the next small stroke.

At first I drew for family and friends. Then a friend of a friend asked, and then a stranger, and the quiet thing I did to cope slowly became something people wanted in their homes.