Before my son was born, I had this idyllic (read: unrealistic) idea of what writing as a parent would look like. I pictured him coloring quietly on the floor while I typed away at my laptop—or the two of us journaling side by side, him with his markers and me with my fountain pen. (No, I don’t own a fountain pen.) I’d sip my coffee, and he’d sip his hot chocolate. We’d be creative together. It’d be adorable.
If you’re ahead of me in the parenthood game, please take this moment to laugh at me.
I deserve it.
Because as it turns out, writing with a kid can be frustrating, to say the least. It’s easy to give up. It’s easy to limit my creativity to those few-and-far-between moments when I have the house to myself or I can sneak out to a coffee shop on the weekend (without feeling like I have to use that time to catch up on work.)
But the more I think about it—and read about it and listen to people smarter than me talk about it—the more I realize that staying committed to my creativity, even at home and even in the chaos, is just as important for my son as it is for me.
Why? Because our kids learn from the way we show up for the things we love.
My son has seen me write in all sorts of unglamorous conditions:
in the car waiting for grocery pickup
on the couch while he “cuts my hair” with his plastic screwdriver
in the kitchen while pasta water boils
on the bathroom counter during bath time (10/10 recommend)
None of these moments looked like a magical writing retreat. And he hardly understands what I’m doing—other than not giving him 100% of my attention, even if just for a few minutes—but he’s watching.
And while I know he won’t grasp the full picture for years, here’s what I hope he’s learning as he sees me sit down with my laptop, my notebook, my coffee, and my stubborn commitment to my writing life.
1. That Creativity Is Worth Protecting
Right now, he sees me close my notebook when he toddles in from his room and says, “Mama, do you want to go on a ‘venture?” And most of the time, I do. Because I know I won’t be as cool as I am right now for long.
But I also hope he sees the flip side: That mom sits down and does something creative, something just for herself, as often as possible. I hope he learns that creativity—whatever form that takes for him one day—deserves a place in his life, no matter what else he has going on.
2. That Grown-Ups Have Passions Too
Toddlers believe adults exist to meet their needs: Snacks, snuggles, puzzles, potty reminders...And sometimes I start to believe that, too. But on Sunday mornings when I tell him I’m going to the bookstore to help people write books—or when he wonders in on the rare outside-of-daycare-hours coaching call and hears a client laughing with me as we celebrate her writing wins or turn her writers’ block into a solvable puzzle—I hope it plants a seed in his little mind:
Grown-ups have dreams, too.
We don’t age out of wanting things for ourselves, and neither should he
3. That Moms Are Allowed to Take Up Space
Too many of us grew up believing “good moms” were self-sacrificing to the point of invisibility. I don’t want that for him. I don’t want him to expect it for me. I don’t want him to expect it for any women in his life as he gets older. And I don’t want him to expect it for himself as a parent.
So instead of a mom who’s all mom, all the time, I hope I can show him a mom who loves him fiercely, delights in spending time with him, and shows up for her own passions. A mom who sets boundaries. A mom who says, “This hour is mine,” and follows through.
Not because writing is more important than him—never!—but because I want him to grow up thinking it’s normal for a woman to build a life that includes her own voice.
4. That Stories Are How We Make Sense of Being Human
Little man is obsessed with books. We’d read ten a night if he had his way. (Same, kid.) And he’s starting to learn from them. Little things like thinking Santa is going to bring the star topper for our Christmas tree, because that’s what happens in Merry Christmas, Curious George! And bigger things like, when he’s overstimulated at a football watch party, it’s okay to come to me and say, “Mama, there are too many people in here. Let’s go somewhere else” (true story), because that’s what he learned from Llama Llama.
What he doesn’t see yet is how the stories he loves get made—or that I spend my days helping other people turn their experiences into books that will ultimately help someone else feel a little less alone.
But he does see his mom sitting down to write. To shape something meaningful out of the messiness of life. To wrestle with ideas, revise, try again, and keep going even when it’s hard.
Someday, I hope he connects those dots: That the stories he loves didn’t appear out of thin air; that someone, somewhere, sat down and made them; and that he grew up watching one of those someones every day.
Stories are how humans process, learn, connect, and even breathe, sometimes. I see that he’s learning that early, and I hope watching me write helps him understand where stories come from and why they matter.
5. That You Don’t Need Perfect Conditions to Make Something Beautiful
Believe me, that kid sees the mess. The laundry mountains. The dishes in the sink. The toys everywhere. (He walked into his room the other day and said, “Oh my goodness! What a mess!”)
He also sees me scribble notes on my phone while stirring soup or dictate a sentence in the parking lot or grab four minutes at the kitchen counter while he plays with kinetic sand. I could be using any of those moments to do a chore or three—and I often do—but sometimes it’s okay to let the chores go for a minute in favor of something that fills me up.
I hope he grows up internalizing this. I hope that he understands you don’t need a retreat or a silent house or hours of uninterrupted time to do the things you love. You just need the tiniest opening.
6. That He Inspires Me But Isn’t Responsible for My Dreams
This is an important one. Everything I do has changed because of my son. Motivation, substance, scheduling…it’s all different now because he exists. It’s stronger, it’s higher stakes, and it’s more strategic.
But this isn’t his fault. It’s my greatest joy to do things for and with and because of (and sometimes in spite of) him. His existence deepens the purpose of everything I do.
And it’s not his burden, either. I hope he never feels like my writing (or anything I do) is for him to carry, fuel, or validate. He doesn’t exist to make my dreams meaningful. He doesn’t owe me productivity or legacy. He doesn’t even owe me shared passions.
But I do hope he catches glimpses here and there of how being his mom has expanded my heart and imagination in ways I never anticipated.
He’s not the reason I write.
But he is one of the reasons I write braver.
One Day He’ll Understand
One day, when he’s older, he might look back and say, “Mom was always writing.”
But my real hope is that he remembers more than that:
That he saw a woman who made space for her creativity.
That he watched a mother build something of her own.
That he learned passion and parenthood can live in the same room.
And maybe, someday, when he’s carving out time for something that lights him up—even in the middle of a very busy life—he’ll feel that tiny spark of recognition:
This is what my mom taught me.
If You Want to Teach Your Kids These Lessons, Too…
You don’t need perfect quiet, a spotless house, or kids who magically entertain themselves.
You just need a rhythm—and a community that welcomes the real life happening in the background.
That’s exactly what we do inside The Inkwell, my writing community for creative moms and other busy creatives.
Every week, we gather for focused writing sessions. Toddlers wander in. Dogs bark. Someone’s kid hands them a half-eaten granola bar on Zoom. It’s never a problem. It’s life. And we write anyway—together.
If you’re craving structure, momentum, and a space where your creativity gets to matter again (no guilt required), I’d love for you to join us.