Creative Parents, Creative Children (and Room to Experiment)

People often say that I must have a very creative child.
Having me as his mom and an artist father — of course he must be creative.

Usually, I just smile, nod, or say something lightly contradictory to keep the conversation going. But recently, I paused with that statement and decided to own it.

Because he is.

He’s a little creative powerhouse, and I’m genuinely in awe of what comes out of that beautiful mind and those tiny hands.

Yes, we give him access to tools and materials. Paper, markers, glue, tape — all the things. But creativity isn’t just about supplies. It’s about permission. And for a while, something unexpected showed up.

He got stuck in perfectionism.

At four years old.

He became overly focused on the result — whether it looked “right,” whether it was good enough — and I saw how quickly that joy could tighten into pressure. That moment stayed with me, because it’s exactly how so many of us learn to disconnect from creativity later on. We stop experimenting and start performing. We start equating worth with outcome.

So we shifted the focus.

We began talking more about process than results. About trying things out. About mistakes. About how “failing” is often just another word for discovering something new.

I’m very aware of how early expectations can settle into the body. How quickly children learn to measure themselves — through praise, grades, comparisons. How easily creativity can become something to get right instead of something to be in.

I don’t want that for him.

I want him to learn that it’s safe to experiment. That it’s okay to make a mess. That frustration doesn’t mean you’re doing something wrong — it often means you’re doing something interesting.

Recently, I gave him a glue gun.

A powerful tool in the hands of a four-year-old.

One day, I noticed he had glued a drawing directly onto the wall.

I laughed — and then we talked about rules again. About where and when certain tools can be used. About boundaries. That drawing is still there. It will probably stay there until the day we move.

Because that moment wasn’t about correcting him. It was about holding both things at once: freedom and structure.

That balance feels important to us.

He has free range — within certain boundaries. We encourage what lights him up. We give him space to go wild with paper, glue, and ideas. And when things spill over, we guide rather than shame.

The goal isn’t to raise an artist.

He might become a designer. Or a scientist. Or a notary. Or a street sweeper.

What matters to me is that he feels supported — from us, and from within himself. That he trusts his curiosity. That he knows his value isn’t dependent on performance or outcome. That creativity remains a place of refuge, not pressure.

In many ways, watching him learn this has reminded me to return to it myself.

To make room for play.
To soften my grip on results.
To trust that when there’s space to experiment, something honest tends to emerge.

Creativity, after all, isn’t inherited.
It’s protected.

Watching creativity take shape in someone else has reminded me that it doesn’t thrive under pressure — it grows when there is space, trust, and room to experiment.

I’m learning to offer myself the same conditions.