The morning I left my husband, I packed an overnight bag and took a taxi to a friend's house. When I'd called her at 6am, she'd immediately said: "Come over." She lived nearby in Brooklyn and a moment later, I was sitting on her bed, dazed. When she left the room, I caught a glimpse of myself in her mirror. Intuitively, I took out my camera, set it on timer, and took a picture.

When I look at that photo now, more than two years later, it haunts me. The woman in the picture is exhausted, face pale, body hunched, and eyes swollen. Her hair is Einstein-like and she looks a little crazed, her gaze unfocused. She can think of nothing else but to sit and be still. She's heartbroken.

I like to think that the instinct to take the photo was rooted in hope.

I like to think that the instinct to take the photo was rooted in hope – that I sensed this was the beginning of something. A transformation to be captured. In my relationship, my husband and I had changed so drastically that we'd become strangers. Maybe it was New York – we'd moved to to the city as newlyweds and now, just a few months later, I no longer recognised myself in the mirror. Even in my desperation, I recognised the chance for recovery, and so every day, I continued to take the photos.

That first week I collected more of my things and moved into my friend's apartment. It was temporary, while I weighed up returning to home to Sydney. My friend lived with another girl and her cat, Spoon. She was a tuxedo cat, black and white, and followed me everywhere. Spoon was clingy and I loved her for it. In these photos I'm wearing big woollen sweaters, Spoon nestled on my lap, or in my suitcase. It was December and the heating wasn't working; I look devastated, but mainly, just freezing.