A raw, unfiltered and heartfelt look at raising a multi-talented child in a world that demands excellence.

There’s a moment every parent remembers — the first time their child shows a spark. Not just interest, but intensity. For me, it wasn’t just Teagan dancing in the living room or singing in the car. It was the way she focused when it came to movement, how she listened to music like it was a language she already spoke. She wasn’t just performing — she was interpreting. And I knew, even then, that I wasn’t raising a hobbyist. I was raising an artist.

But here’s the thing: every mom thinks their kid is special. That’s not the story. The story is what it’s like to raise a young child who’s already making choices that will shape her career — and her identity — before she’s even old enough to drive. The story is what it means to be a single mother trying to guide, protect, and sometimes just keep up with a child who’s growing faster than the world knows how to hold.

Teagan isn’t just talented — she’s multi-talented. That’s a blessing and a logistical nightmare. Dance, acting, tumbling, art, piano — she’s not dabbling. She’s training. And that means schedules that rival my corporate calendar, emotional highs and lows that come with auditions and performances, and the constant recalibration of what “normal childhood” even looks like.

There’s no blueprint for raising a kid like this. And in the absence of a guide, I’ve had to learn to be one myself — not just a mom, but a manager, a mentor, a chauffeur, a therapist, and sometimes, the bad guy.

And not only do I have to navigate her rehearsals, practices, auditions, shoots, and lessons — I must navigate co-parenting. Which, if I’m honest, might be the hardest part of all.

Co-parenting while raising a young artist adds a layer of complexity that few people talk about. It’s not just about coordinating drop-offs or agreeing on bedtime routines. It’s about aligning values, expectations, and long-term vision — in a world that moves fast and demands clarity.

There are moments when we’re not on the same page. When decisions about which opportunities to pursue, how much to invest, or how to handle rejection become points of tension. And unlike a traditional parenting setup, there’s no built-in buffer. Every disagreement has the potential to ripple into Teagan’s emotional and creative life.

I’ve had to learn how to advocate for her while also navigating the dynamics of shared parenting. How to stay focused on her well-being, even when the adult stuff gets messy. It’s not glamorous. It’s not easy. But it’s part of the reality — and it shapes how I show up for her every day.

And it means navigating co-parenting with grace — even when it’s hard. Even when it feels like I’m doing it alone.

At age 38, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve picked up the phone and called my own mom and said, “I’m sorry — and thank you.” I didn’t realize in my younger years the sacrifices she was making each and every day to give me the opportunities I craved. My father, on the other hand, always says, “All those classes and uniforms we paid for, and you didn’t do anything with it.” But that’s where he’s wrong.

I did everything with it.

I learned how to win as a team. How to lose the state championship after hours and months of practicing just one routine. How to be in front of an audience. How to represent myself and a team of others. I learned every single attribute I have now from those moments — that hard work pays off, to have grit, and determination. It led to my career and the confidence I have as an adult. And now, I see those same lessons unfolding in Teagan’s life, just in her own way.

The Discipline Dilemma

One of the hardest parts is helping Teagan navigate the pressure of choosing a discipline. In the arts world, specialization is often seen as the path to mastery. But what do you do when your child equally loves in four or five areas? When she’s getting callbacks for commercials, winning awards for dance, sketching portraits that make adults stop and stare, and playing piano with a sensitivity that feels years beyond her age?

We talk a lot about identity. About how the world will try to box her in, and how she doesn’t have to let it. But we also talk about strategy. About how time is finite, and how every “yes” is a “no” to something else. These aren’t conversations most kids are having at her age.

Raising a young artist means living in a constant state of emotional flux. There’s the joy of watching her light up on stage, the pride when she nails a new trick, the heartbreak when she doesn’t get the part she wanted. And then there’s the quiet stuff — the self-doubt, the comparison, the fear of being “too much” or “not enough.”

I’ve had to learn how to hold space for all of it. To be the person who says, “You’re allowed to feel this,” while also being the person who says, “And now we get back up.” It’s a delicate balance — validating her emotions without letting them define her trajectory. I’m the one who sees the tears after a tough critique and the quiet confidence after a breakthrough.

Teagan’s growth isn’t linear. It’s exponential. One year she’s dancing in local recitals, the next she’s performing in regional & national competitions. One month she’s sketching for fun, the next she’s submitting for best of. And now, she’s composing simple melodies on the piano that feel like the beginning of something bigger.

With every step forward, the stakes get higher. But what excites me most isn’t the accolades. It’s the agency. Teagan is learning to advocate for herself. To say, “This is the kind of artist I want to be.” She’s learning to collaborate, to take feedback, to push through creative blocks. These are skills that will serve her whether she ends up on Broadway, in a studio, or somewhere we haven’t even imagined yet.

We talk a lot about the future. Not in terms of fame or fortune, but in terms of impact. What kind of stories does she want to tell? What kind of spaces does she want to create? What kind of artist — and human — does she want to be?

And as her mom, I think about my role in that future. How do I support her without steering her? How do I protect her without limiting her? How do I make sure she has the tools to thrive, even when I’m not the one holding the map?

It’s not easy. There are days I feel like I’m failing (a lot of days). Days I worry that I’m pushing too hard, or not hard enough. Days I wonder if I’m giving her the right kind of freedom. But then I see her perform, or hear her talk about a character she’s playing in a musical, or watch her help a younger dancer in ballet — and I remember why we’re doing this.

Behind every young artist is a support system. And for Teagan, that system is me. That means late nights, early mornings, financial sacrifices, emotional labor, and a whole lot of improvisation. It means learning the language of casting calls, understanding the politics of youth performance spaces, and constantly advocating for her in rooms where she’s still learning to speak up.

It also means letting go. Letting her fail. Letting her make choices I wouldn’t make. Letting her define success on her own terms. And it means navigating co-parenting with grace — even when it’s hard. Even when it feels like I’m doing it alone.

This isn’t a fairy tale. It’s not a “look how amazing my kid is” story. It’s a real-life account of what it means to raise a young artist in a world that demands excellence, resilience, and clarity — often before kids are developmentally ready to provide it. I often find myself saying, “Teagan, I know you’re only 6, but mommy needs to explain it to you like you are 10.”

It’s about the tension between nurturing and navigating. Between dreaming and doing. Between being a mom and managing her. And it’s about Teagan — not as a prodigy, but as a person. A person who’s growing, evolving, and learning to wield her talent with intention.

If you’re a parent raising a young artist, you know the terrain. It’s beautiful and brutal. It’s full of possibility and pressure. And if you’re a single parent, you know the stakes are even higher. There’s no one else to carry the load. No one else to split the decisions. No one else to say, “You’re doing enough.”

But here’s what I’ve learned: the journey is worth it. Not because of where it might lead, but because of who it’s shaping her to be. And who it’s shaping me to be. We’re not chasing fame. We’re building a foundation. One rehearsal, one sketch, one audition, one piano lesson, one conversation at a time. And if Teagan ends up on a stage that makes the world take notice, great. But if she ends up creating art that makes her feel seen, that’s even better.

The post Precocious Potential: The Unfiltered Journey of a Young Artist and Her Midwest Mom. appeared first on Karjaka Magazine.

Growing up a small town Kansas kid, I of course loved the Wizard of Oz. From a young age I always felt pulled to Dorothy’s character, wanting something different than the farm, but not sure what exactly. When I was 14 I was lucky enough to visit NYC on a summer school trip, and from then on, have had my eyes set on the Big Apple!

After getting a bachelor’s degree in science of nursing, and earning my RN, I moved to Kansas City and I was so happy to be in a bigger pond. I worked as a Labor and Delivery nurse, always ushering new life into the world and feeling like a badass while doing it. It was in KC that I was scouted by a talent agent, and from there my very dear Cara came into the picture. She coached me and really helped me learn the art of posing, but more importantly she helped me find my self confidence on the other side of the camera.

Early on modeling was all about self discovery, learning my poses, but during that time in my early 20s I was also learning more about who I was. It was through modeling, creating art, and growing my hair out that allowed me the space to be different. I realized I no longer was Mitchell who was a boy, but Mitchell who was this non-binary soul who didn’t feel confined by the boxes of society to be boy or girl, male or female, rather me, somewhere in the middle.

After 3 years in Kansas City and building a lovely queer friend group – family really – I knew I needed to rip the band-aide off and pack my bags for New York. I was lucky to have a career that allowed me to move anywhere and really find a job rather easy. So in September of 2023 I flew to NYC with 2 overpacked checked bags, a sassy French Bulldog named, Beatrice (I’m a huge fan of Bea Arthur, Golden Girls is one of my favorite TV shows) and a dream. The first day in the city I just remember wearing the biggest smile, beaming with pride about finally making it, little did I know that next year would be one of the grittiest years of learning I’ve done thus far in 29 years of life.

Now 2 years in, I love NYC, but the beginning wasn’t easy. I was mourning the loss of a city I loved, friends and family I loved, all because I thought I would take a risk on a city we all know has truly unlimited possibilities around every corner. The first year helped me grow, being pushed to take care of myself, show up for myself, all while having loads of fun on the way. I’ve met a few folks who I know will be a part of my life for the rest of my life, and I am grateful to have found them. I think that’s the NYC love story of my life so far, meeting friends, truly great friends who show up for you, love you deeply, and laugh every steps of the way. After all, we’re all just kids who moved here, fell in love with the city and decided to put down roots.

I’m not sure what my NYC tenure will look like, I’m hoping to submit to modeling agencies this summer and be signed by Fall. This photo shoot was my first in NYC and I’m so proud of how far I’ve come from those early days. I’m excited for my future here, I want to make this the city I grow up in, after all “There’s no place like home” and NYC is now home for me.

The post I Clicked My Heels Three Times and Poof, I was Home. appeared first on Karjaka Magazine.

I’ve always been telling stories.

Before I had the words, I had images, gestures, make-believe worlds. Art didn’t arrive like a choice, it found me the way light finds a crack in the door. From a young age, I understood that stories weren’t just entertainment; they were survival, a way of making sense of the world and my place within it.

As a Black trans woman, I make paintings that explore Black American culture through the lens of Americana. I’m interested in questions: Who gets remembered? Who gets edited out? Who gets to define “American”? My work is both an homage and a challenge: it honors the richness of Black culture, its rhythms, its sorrow songs, its everyday magic, while also holding space for the lives and identities that have too often been pushed to the margins.

I am part of the lineage, but I also live at its edge. I exist in a space where gender, memory, and visibility collide. And in that space, I paint.

I grew up in a house where masculinity wasn’t just a norm, it was the atmosphere. My father was a professional football player, a man who moved through the world with the kind of quiet authority you don’t question. He was strength and discipline, toughness and silence. My mother, too, was formidable. Practical, direct, and unbothered by softness. She had a strength that was less about volume and more about gravity. She didn’t bend.

In that world, emotion didn’t have a seat at the table. Femininity didn’t have a room in the house. And yet, there I was: a small, tender, expressive boy who couldn’t help but cry at cartoons or get swept up in the drama of a good story. I was always a little too sensitive, a little too dreamy, a little too much.

My parents loved me, I believe, but they didn’t quite know what to do with me. Their world was built on structure, competition, and control. Vulnerability didn’t fit into their understanding of success. And so, I learned to keep my softness hidden. My femininity became a private rebellion, something I nurtured in secret.

That’s where art came in. It was the one place I didn’t have to explain myself. I could draw the girls I wasn’t allowed to be, paint the emotions I wasn’t allowed to show, create little portals to worlds where I felt whole. I didn’t call it “survival” back then, but that’s what it was. Telling stories through images was how I made sense of the world and how I carved out a space for myself inside it.

For years, I made art quietly. I didn’t show anyone the paintings of girlhood, the imagined landscapes, the emotional self-portraits tucked away in sketchbooks. I was afraid, of course, but I was also protecting something sacred. Those images were too honest, too raw, too close to the truth. They didn’t just challenge the rules of my household; they defied them.

But eventually, secrecy became too heavy to carry.

Now, I paint loudly. I take up space. I hang my work on walls and let it speak for itself. My paintings are not quiet anymore; they hum, they grieve, they celebrate, they insist. They say: “I am here. I was always here. You just didn’t know how to see me.”

When I paint, I think about the people who were never included in the official stories. The ones who were left out of the family albums, the museum walls, the history books. I paint them back into the frame. I give them light, color, and presence. I give them voice.

And in doing that, I give something back to myself.

My work is rooted in the language of Americana because I want to trouble its mythologies. I want to ask: what happens when someone like me holds the brush? What happens when we expand the idea of who gets to belong? Who gets to define “American,” and why has that definition been so narrow for so long?

The answers aren’t simple, but the act of asking is where the magic begins.

I still carry that little child inside me; the one who cried too easily, who felt too much, who made beauty out of whatever scraps she could find. But now, she’s not hiding. She’s painting. She’s telling stories with her whole chest. She’s rewriting the ending.

And she’s hanging it on the wall, in full color, for everyone to see.

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Letter from the Editor

They Only Crawl Once…

I am by no means a “newborn photographer”, however I have photographed my fair share of toddlers, tots and tykes. A portrait is a portrait regardless of age, and what lights me up is capturing that innocence. Coming up on a year of Covid, I’m receiving an influx of calls for holiday gifts of maternity and soon to be newborn shoots in the New Year.

Recently a buddy of mine down in Texas gave me a ring. Unable to make it up here before his son’s impending arrival, we talked about the importance/need of capturing before & after photos down in Texas. Whether you’re going through your first or fifth pregnancy, they’re all unique. And that journey is one that should be captured. That being said, regardless of what photographer you use, coming to me or finding a local gal or guy, here are some tips to be mindful of…

Eye on the Baby Rattle

If you thought finding a portrait photographer was difficult, the Newborn industry is the Wild West. Everyone who as a camera …twenty somethings with nothing going on and an iPhone, soccer Moms & investment banker Dads with that new expensive camera working from home… are all maternity/newborn/family photographers. And with Covid still hanging on, they’re only too quick to build their business and website in 20 minutes online. In talking with my Texas buddy, I outlined to him what I’d be looking for when hiring your family photographer of choice.

“Who am I hiring, a photographer or an artist?” Photography is as much about the experience as it is the end result. You will get a photograph at the end of both shoot setups, but working with an artists will have you lost in the euphoria of the experience long after that last frame as been captured. Since we’re not going into Family Portrait storefronts and studios much these days, we’re relying primarily on websites. That being said, not all sites are created equal, and that reflects the business and photographer.

Do you like their photos? Every photographer has a style. Even the ones starting off have a style, it’s called chaos. If every photo looks different, run for the hills. I could describe what that means, but basically use your intuition. If it looks like a cash grab, it usually is. Imagine you yourselves, or your soon to be newborn in those poses, location or studio. Can you imagine yourself there? If not, close your browser tab.

Website Construction. I’ll save the lecture on User Experience on a grand scale. The main thing to be looking for, outside of user-ability, is does it look well done or thrown together? With Wix, Weebly, Square Space, WordPress and others, it’s easy to throw together a website in minutes that look pretty decent. Add some time and an e-commerce page, and your newborn business is born. Work with a UX designer and web developer and the site stands out like yours truly here. What amazes is me is the wide breath of early 2000’s to newborn websites with advertisements on every page. Banners and print pages galore to mask the fact that the photos are, well… meh.

Bulk. As with some of these businesses, many have a turnstyle-like business model. Built for bulk and turn around, their pricing is usually on the cheaper side. Get’em in, get’em out. You get what you pay for. Perhaps even just a grade above JC Penny and there’s nothing wrong with JCP, if that’s what your budget/vision allow for. But don’t expect artistry.

1 Stop Shop. This gets a little complicated. Outside of the typical needs of hair and makeup, do they offer printing services? Custom framing/mounting? Generic frames a cut above Michael’s or Blick Art Supplies? Shipping etc?

A website that doesn’t offer such items is a usually a photographer that went to Best Buy, and picked up whatever camera was on sale that day. On the other hand, some Family focused photographers push these add-ons ad nauseum as this is where their bulk of profit is to be made. Beware the barrage of online banners.

And finally, without getting too far into the weeds on this subject, do they come recommended, or referred from friends and family? At the end of the day, research tells us that people with likely take the friendly advice one who’s worked with so and so, over the random likelihood of stumbling on a website. While Google and social media are great to ask the hive mind on thoughts, your taste, trust and budget will likely guide you to the maternity photo of your dreams.

In any event, don’t wait till child number two or three arrives on the scene before capturing that family photo. They’re only newborns for so long, and those memories are fleeting. Do it up proper and thank me later.

Got Childish Questions? Call Karjaka.

The post Newborns in the New Year appeared first on Karjaka Magazine.

…And now there’s water on my floor. Four years later and my studio has never been the same. No one really prepares for a photoshoot. You have an idea, past experiences, but the day of the shoot in studio or on location can be generally… chaotic.  And that’s kind of the theme for all art, organized chaos. So when your pregnant visionary emerges out of your studio bathroom with puzzled expression, and casually drops to the team… “So I just released a quarter cup of water in the bathroom?”, an apt response is to go speechless and or pale. 

No amount of storyboards, pre-production calls, and mock ups will ever prepare you for the thought of possible placenta in the the studio. In such an event I recommend staying calm and getting the shot. Once said shot has been achieved, and baby has been had, make sure to print said moment of jubilation.

The post Letter from the Editor: There’s a Baby in There! appeared first on Karjaka Magazine.