I don't want to believe it - that parenting itself makes art

When Kim Brooks wrote: “I don’t want to believe it — that parenting itself makes art hard, that you must always sacrifice one for the other, that there is something inherently selfish and greedy and darkly obsessive in the desire to care as much about the thing you are writing or making as you do about the other humans in your life. What parent would want to believe this?” she gave voice to an eternal struggle of the human spirit — the tension between creation of life and creation of art. In her words we hear the cry of one torn between two great loves: the devotion to family and the devotion to craft. Her lament is not weakness, but recognition of the cost of both paths, for both demand time, heart, and soul.

The origin of this truth lies in the reality of human limitation. To be a parent is to give endlessly — to rise in the night, to labor through the day, to place another’s needs above one’s own. To be an artist is also to give endlessly — to descend into the depths of imagination, to wrestle with visions, to sacrifice comfort for creation. Both are jealous masters, and when both call at once, the soul is stretched thin, sometimes to the breaking point. Brooks resists the belief that one must be abandoned for the other, yet she acknowledges the weight of that suspicion, a suspicion as old as the muses themselves.

History is filled with examples of this struggle. Consider Victor Hugo, whose genius in literature burned like a flame, yet whose children often felt the cold of his absence. Or think of Mary Shelley, who created Frankenstein in the shadow of grief, after burying her infant child. Their stories illustrate that the tension Brooks describes is not new: the balance between raising children of flesh and children of the mind has always been fraught, with sacrifice and sorrow intertwined. Yet from their pain, great works were born, reminding us that both loves — family and art — can coexist, though never without trial.

Her words also echo the guilt that often haunts creators who are also parents. To give oneself to writing, painting, or composing can feel like stealing from one’s child, as though every hour at the desk is an hour of love withheld. Society often deepens this guilt, whispering that to value one’s work alongside one’s family is selfish, even darkly obsessive. But Brooks resists this condemnation, asking: What parent would want to believe that love for art diminishes love for family? She reminds us that the soul is vast enough to contain both, and that creativity, when nurtured, can enrich not only the parent but the child as well.

The deeper lesson is that love is not a finite resource. To pour into one’s art does not mean to drain love from one’s children; rather, it can mean showing them what passion looks like, what devotion to craft can achieve. A parent who creates teaches resilience, discipline, and wonder, even if they cannot always be present at every moment. The challenge lies not in choosing between parenting and art, but in weaving them together, imperfectly, into the tapestry of a full life.

Yet let us not romanticize the difficulty. The sacrifices are real. The hours lost, the exhaustion felt, the guilt endured — these are burdens every parent-artist must carry. But they are also the crucibles in which both better parents and better artists can be forged. For in learning to balance, one learns patience. In choosing to return, again and again, to both child and craft, one learns perseverance. This is the wisdom hidden in Brooks’s struggle: that the impossibility of perfection is not failure, but proof of humanity.

Practical actions must follow: artists who parent should guard time with discipline, carving spaces for both family and craft without shame. They should embrace imperfection, knowing that some days will belong to children, and some to art, and that this ebb and flow is natural. They should banish guilt when pursuing their creative work, remembering that by doing so, they are also modeling passion and purpose. And above all, they must reject the lie that art and parenting are enemies, for in truth they are companions, each teaching lessons that enrich the other.

So let Kim Brooks’s words stand as a torch for all who walk this path: do not believe that love for art diminishes love for family. Rather, know that both can dwell in the same heart, though not without struggle. The parent who creates does not love less, but loves in more directions. And the artist who parents does not create less, but creates with deeper roots. Pass this teaching on, so that future generations may know that the soul of a human being is vast enough to cradle both children and dreams.