The Beginning of a Fractured Reality
February 2020: My mum called me while I was at work to say she wasn’t feeling well. I was in London; she was in Cambridge. I called an ambulance, and they took her to the hospital. By the time I arrived, they had checked her over and said nothing was wrong. But something was wrong—she couldn’t speak English. She could only speak Persian.
Mum had spoken English for 50 years. And suddenly, she couldn’t. But the doctors couldn’t see anything physically wrong. She was agitated and just wanted to go home, so they sent her back.
The next two weeks were the start of confusion. She wasn’t herself. She was distant, screaming, crying, searching for something. She would call family and friends asking for me—her son—but when they told her I was right there, she wouldn’t believe them. She also stopped taking her pain medication, which she had been on for over 20 years. I wasn’t sure if what was happening was drug withdrawal or something else.
Then she fell down the stairs. Backwards. Cracked her head. That’s when the hospital finally realised—she’d had a stroke. They found out because, somehow, she had two NHS numbers.
That was just the beginning.
Over the next six months, I had to slowly let go of the life I had built—my flat, my art studio, my work in London—all while trying to manage a system that was impossible to navigate during the start of Covid. Every phone call led to another department. Every conversation started from scratch. I had to fight to get my mum the right care, the right diagnosis, the right support. It took constant battling just to get people to believe what was happening. Eventually, I managed to get some respite hours—16 hours a week—but then came the challenge of dealing with agencies and finding carers.
Getting mum to accept carers was another battle. She would scream at them to leave the house. She could understand them if they spoke English but would only answer in Persian. I had to navigate through countless agencies, trying to find the right fit—people who wouldn’t trigger her, people who could actually help. It took time—too much time—to find consistency.
There was no rhythm to any of it. No stability. No moment where I could say, “Okay, we’ve got this now.” Everything was constantly shifting.
Butterflies & The Mind’s Prison
In those first few months, I painted butterflies. I didn’t really plan to, but they kept coming through in my work. I created 22 of them in that time.
I kept thinking about the brain, about thoughts, about being trapped. I was watching my mum’s mind loop in on itself, hitting the same walls, stuck in the same patterns. I wondered if, instead of a locked room, her thoughts were butterflies. Would they be able to weave through, find new ways around the obstacles, escape? Flutter around the wall instead of crashing into it?
“The butterfly weaves in between our emotions, memory & mind.”
In a way, the butterflies became a symbol of my own mind too. My thoughts were caught in the same cycles. Frustration with the system. Exhaustion from the endless paperwork. Watching my mum become multiple people. Watching myself become multiple people.
Versions of Robert: Inner Soul
Over time, the butterflies shifted into something deeper—Versions of Robert.
Because the truth is, I wasn’t just losing my mum. I was losing myself.
I became different people depending on the day. Some days, I was her son. Some days, I was someone she didn’t trust. Some days, for months, I was a woman. I had to adapt, step in and out of roles, constantly shifting who I was just to keep her calm, to keep her safe.
I learned how to speak in a way that wouldn’t set her off, how to adjust my tone, my posture, my entire presence. I learned how to be the version of myself she needed in that moment. If my emotions changed—if I was tired, ill, or angry—then suddenly, I was a different person to her.
And while I was doing that, I was also dealing with carers, agencies, doctors, mental health crisis teams who passed me from department to department, repeating the same explanations over and over. For the first six months, it was impossible to get help. Then, eventually, with a lot of fighting, I got the right people to start helping me. But there was still a long way to go.
Versions of Robert wasn’t just a collection of work. It was survival.
“Two spirits talkingTalking of then and nowTalking of protection & angerTalking of fear & control…”
That’s why the words became part of the art. The words on the paper, the spoken word poetry, the textures and movement in each piece—everything was part of the same process. It wasn’t just about painting. It was about processing, breaking down, rebuilding. My inner soul was talking to me.
Closing Thoughts
This chapter of my work—Versions of Robert and the Butterflies—holds everything from that time. The fight. The loss of who my mum was and who she was holding onto. The moments of light, the exhaustion, the surrender.
My mum passed on December 9, 2025. After five years of watching her struggle, she was finally at peace. She had asked everyone to pray for her to pass. Even though I knew it was coming, even though I thought I was prepared, it still hit like a shockwave.
Art is how I process. These works are my journal, my voice, my survival. They tell the story of my mum, but also the story of who I became in the process.
And maybe, they are also a reminder—That our thoughts don’t have to be locked rooms. That we are always more than one version of ourselves. That, sometimes, it’s the butterfly that finds the way out.
By Robert Paul