Nothing really prepares you for the full-body, full-mind overhaul that comes with having a child.
One afternoon, after making my daughter cucumbers and carrots for a snack, I found myself hiding under the kitchen counter on the other side to eat a bag of chips. It was a ridiculous scene. There I was—a grown adult, hiding from a two-year-old because I didn't want her eating the very thing I was eating.
The question lingered long after the chips were gone: how do I help my daughter become the person I hope she can be?
Parenthood has a way of holding up a mirror. It asks not only what we want for our children, but whether we are willing to practice those things ourselves.
If I want my daughter to love herself, I must show her what self-love looks like. If I want her to speak her mind, I must be willing to use my own voice. If I want her to grow into a person who is confident, curious, and kind, I cannot simply tell her to become those things. I have to embody them.
Motherhood revealed a gap between what I wanted for my child and what I practiced myself.
Showing up matters. The small things matter. Every goodnight lullaby, every promise kept, every bumped knee and elbow and shin and knuckle kissed better matters.
The weight of that realization changed my relationship to art.
I began thinking about the countless ways children learn—not through instruction, but through experience. Through action. Through repetition. Through seeing what the people around them actually do.
With Our Little Hands is a two-part interactive installation exploring how children come to understand themselves through action.