When she died, the thing I had built my life around collapsed. For years, my purpose had been keeping her head above water. Without that, I didn't know who I was.

Almost immediately, I signed up for courses at the Rietveld Academy. Not with a plan, with an instinct. She made art. Maybe through art I could stay close to her in a way I couldn't anymore through words. I started making things. Slowly, cautiously. Alongside a corporate career that, on the surface, was going well.

It wasn't until years later that the surface gave way. My body eventually said: enough. A year of EMDR therapy followed, and with it, the diagnosis I had been outrunning. I had studied psychology. I knew the language. Knowing the language is not the same as living it.

On the other side of that year, something had reorganised. The art practice I had been quietly building started to feel less like a side note and more like the point. Her work was still there. Serious work, quietly held by private collectors, largely unseen. Reprinting it felt like a way to let it keep giving to create a continuation, not a monument. Adding my own work alongside hers feels like an extension of a lineage. One generation making, the next carrying it forward.

Studio Sadiq was born from that. Her work, still giving. Mine, just beginning.

If it goes the way I hope, it becomes something larger than one platform. A movement, maybe. Through art. Through speaking. Through creating spaces in companies, in buildings, in rooms, where that conversation becomes possible.

More artists, more organisations, more people willing to say: this matters, and we're not done talking about it.