Ever since my 40 over 40 Project, I’ve been waiting for this day.

Rather than the anticipated fear of ageing that I’ve always had when big birthdays approach (I felt the same when I turned 13 and became an acknowledged teenager and actually even the day I turned 10 I still have vivid memories of- that feeling of despair and almost broken heartedness at saying goodbye to single digit life. So this is clearly a thing for me), but turning 40 I was excited.

I don’t know if it was a culmination of meeting some incredible women and finally learning true self acceptance, or if in fact you just turn 40 and it turns out you really do just give less of a damn. But I wanted to expose a part of me that had been deep rooted in shame and disgust.

My post partum belly.

It’s taken me many years to get to the point of post partum acceptance, and on my 40th birthday I just felt the shackles go and decided to get naked and take some portraits.

With luck I will be in this body far longer than I’ve already been in it, so why was I wasting my time and energy on the concept that others might judge me for my post birth body. My firstborn was a large baby. Far too big for my body. With my second baby I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes, so I actually think I went undiagnosed with gestational diabetes with my first… but the care I received with my first was sub par at best the whole way through. Either way, I was left with a tummy that knocked my self confidence.

My son is now 10 years old, and over the years I’ve learnt to appreciate what my tummy has meant. I’ve gone from hiding my tummy to now wearing bikinis on the beach. There’s almost a thrill I get now when I do that. A sense of defiance and an advocate for all those mothers that didn’t get their previous bodies back after children. I mean what a misogynistic view point in itself (thanks media for that one).

Whether or not your body drastically changes with or without birth, our previous bodies shouldn’t even become an ideal. We should be nurturing the bodies we have.

Without that stretching I wouldn’t have my baby’s. Without the misshapen skin I wouldn’t have nurtured and grown two healthy children.

Yes I could remove the skin. But I’m not a fan of surgery at the best of times, so for me it’s not a route I wanted to go down. It felt like denying what my body had been through and how my children came into existence. Plus as more of my friends had babies I realised we all have post partum changes. Our breasts change after children, our tummy’s change. Some of my friends have grown an extra shoe size. I mean there’s no control over how we will change, but some of us physically do while others don’t change at all. And in truth it’s all ok.

So this is my version of 40. My tummy isn’t toned. It’s soft, it wobbles. It has wrinkles. When I bend over it’s almost like a man’s ball bag. No one complains about those do they… so que sera.

I know my body hasn’t finished changing. It’s constantly changing. With the menopause around the corner it’ll change again. I’m ok with that.

I can not even begin to tell you how freeing doing this self portrait session felt. If there’s a part of you that you feel shame over, I actively encourage you to confront it. Turns out, my belly doesn’t look half as bad as I thought it did, I actually quite like it. And I appreciate the other areas of my body that I’d completely forgotten about because of all my thoughts were consumed by my belly. When all along, it was doing exactly what it was meant to do. Helping to grow my children, and keeping me alive.

Image as part of The Proud Project. Titled: Grief

❗️Trigger warning ❗️

The day I took the series of images was on the 5th anniversary of my Dads passing. It’s always a day of reflecting and remembering now.

These images helped me to showcase my thoughts and feelings around the time of his passing and how consuming death becomes even after so many years.

Even though my Dad was on palliative care and we were expecting his passing, the period of time leading up to his death was excruciatingly hard.

I handled his dying in the only way I could. By pretending it wasn’t happening.

For me, my Dad has and always will be the oak tree in my life. He was a solid man- the best person to turn to for advice because he was a fountain of knowledge. He had strength a plenty and such an unselfish heart. He inspired me in so many ways. I was proud he was my Dad. He had such a dry sense of humour and a worthy addiction to chocolate.

So I refused to acknowledge he was dying. Even when the oncology consultant sat us all in a room to tell us there was nothing else that could be done and he had weeks left, a couple of months at best with blood transfusions, we all just shut down. I imagine most families cry. We all just left the room in a state of shock and pretended it was your average day. We discussed how good looking the doctor was and my dad just sung to my son who was sat on his lap in a wheelchair on the way back to the hospital ward. We all heard the doctor. We just pretended we hadn’t.

So I refused to acknowledge he was dying. I could visually see it. But my brain wouldn’t allow me to accept the truth. I kept a barrier up for self preservation. I was weak when he needed me not to be.

All those conversations I wish I’d had, I avoided. Instead I kept jovial and upbeat. But my body betrayed me. My throat and mouth were covered in ulcers. I just quietly sat in pain.

The morning he died, a part of me died. I held his hand the entire night, cleaned up the blood that came from his body and played him Jimmy Reeves through my phone. I talked to him about anything and everything. By the time I’d reached his bedside that night he could no longer speak or move, so I was doing what I thought was best. Distracting him. But in reality, I was distracting me.

I didn’t tell him enough that night that I loved him, because I didn’t want him to feel like it was a goodbye. I didn’t want him to know he was dying. I refused to let go of his hand. Clinging onto it like a small child holds onto a parent for assurance and guidance. His hand being my safe place.

He’d been in a state of concious paralysis so when he finally passed I was glad it was over. But internally I was broken. Watching someone die is like sitting in a boat and watching a person drowning but you just can’t reach them. It’s torture. But whatever I felt, it was nothing compared to what my dad had been through. It wasn’t a good death. He’d been let down by medical practitioners and he had no pain relief.

When someone dies and you don’t have those conversations but you know there was a chance you could have, there’s a deeper sense of loss for all the things you wish you’d asked or were brave enough to say.

He passed away at 4.04am and I drove back home to my own family. Again my body betrayed me and I was sick. The trauma too much to take in. I felt weak and lost. I was ashamed that I couldn’t match up and be his oak tree when he needed me. I was small and pathetic in my feeble attempts. I hid away in fear.

I remained the small acorn and cloaked myself from the pain I felt. I could protect myself in my shell, but I couldn’t protect the damage happening to him so it was easier to ignore his pain and pretend life was just normal.

I saw the light go out in his eyes. The moment his soul left. With it he took part of mine.

His death changed me fundamentally. There’s a before and after version of Donna. I think trauma does that to anyone.

I had a pyschic reading with Morgana Marie on his anniversary. and something she said really resonated with me.

He had to die so I could grow.

After a winter hiatus (with full house renovations so no studio to hand), it’s time to come back with a brand new exciting project. I floated the idea last year, but because of everything going on I couldn’t really get it going without the space I needed and half my equipment in the loft.

Plus the longer I’ve sat on the idea and the concept, the more it’s evolved. I absolutely loved The 40/40 Project and the women that I met were incredibly inspiring. I wanted more of that because it brought an acceptance over who I was just by being in their presence. Unknowingly, it created a self acceptance to my perception of ageing. I met so many women on so many different journey’s. From the just widowed, the newly heartbroken. Those going through medical trauma and treatments. Those awaiting results on life changing health matters. I met women who were defying the media’s perception over being a woman over the age of 40. I also met those that embraced the slower lifestyle ageing presented them with. It was incredible. I encountered all the highs and all the lows. Ultimately I came away with a very different view on how to confront the ageing process in a way that was my decision and not impressed upon me by the media. Acceptance, excitement and joy.

The stories moved me, and the portraits I created stirred deep in my soul as the stories came to life visually.

The Proud Project follows on from this. It’s not age dependent because I feel many of us struggle and have struggled throughout the ages. The more we see the visuals of this the easier it is for us to accept exactly who we are or who we’re wanting to become. I talk about my body issues and how photography helped me confront parts of my body I disliked. And I do believe photography provides great therapy in that sense. But I wanted more than just personal therapy.

I wanted to create something that could actively help others outside of this project. A photographic book with different stories and visuals representing a wide section of society and the challenges we individually face at different times, whether that’s visual to the outside world or not.

We all have stories, and the more those stories are shared the more we realise that everyone has their own hidden battle, thoughts and feelings. The more we acknowledge and confront those areas we’re meant to be ashamed of, the more healing can occur. It gives us the chance to truly accept ourselves and others in all our unique attributes, rather than to focus on the differences. I wanted to gift everyone with the permission to sit in their feelings on days when they feel different or insecure and to know that they’re not alone.

I want truth, I want reality. I want raw emotion. I want to create art in its many guises with subjects that aren’t afraid to sit in those feelings and are ready to show up as themselves to the world with pride.

If that sounds like a bit of you, take a look at The Proud Project FAQs to learn more or sign up here.

Neurofibromatosis: A genetic condition which causes tumours to grow along the body’s nerves.

Scoliosis: Scar from scoliosis surgery which is where the spine twists and curves to the side.

Body rolls and dimpling: Representing more body types is important for all women.