I’ve made many attempts over the years to turn my feelings about parenting into something visual. Some paintings have been about the fleetingness of childhood, some about memory, some about wanting to freeze a particular age or moment before it disappears.
But this one might be a new favorite.
The painting is called Come What May, and at its center is my daughter, Teya.
I wanted to paint my belief in her—and, in many ways, my belief in all the young girls of her generation.
There is a strange thing that happens as your children get older. When they are little, so much of parenting is about protection. You put covers over electrical outlets. You cut their grapes in half. You hold their hands crossing the street. You check under beds, apply sunscreen, buckle seat belts, stand at the bottom of ladders, and generally spend a good portion of your life trying to anticipate every possible way the universe might hurt this tiny person you love more than yourself.
And then, almost without noticing, the job begins to change.
They walk farther ahead of you.
They go places without you.
They make friends you didn’t choose, encounter people you don’t know, hear ideas you didn’t introduce, and begin building a life that increasingly belongs to them.
And you realize something both terrifying and wonderful:
You cannot protect them from everything.
Maybe you were never supposed to.
Eventually, I think, the job of a parent shifts from trying to clear the road ahead of your children to helping them realize they already have what they need to travel it.
That was what I wanted this painting to be about.
Teya moves through the world with a kind heart and a determined spirit. She thinks about other people. She chases the things she loves. She works hard. She is creative and funny and somehow manages to carry herself with an easy smile even when she is pushing herself toward something difficult.
Of course, I’m her dad, so I’m allowed to be wildly biased.
But what I find myself most proud of isn't any particular accomplishment. It’s who she is becoming.
We talk a lot about preparing kids for the world, but I wonder if sometimes we think about it backward. Maybe our job isn't to make them tougher than the world. Maybe it's to make sure the world doesn't convince them to give up the qualities that made them special in the first place.
Stay kind.
Stay curious.
Care about people.
Make things.
Try hard.
Laugh often.
Stand up for yourself.
Stand up for somebody else.
And know that being strong and being gentle have never been opposites.
That feels particularly important to me when I think about the generation of young women growing up right now. I look at Teya and her friends and see so much intelligence, creativity, humor, empathy, and determination. I know they will inherit problems we haven't solved and encounter challenges we can't anticipate. There will inevitably be disappointments and heartbreaks that no parent can intercept.
My instinct will probably always be to want to stand between my kids and whatever is coming.
But I'm learning that loving them also means eventually stepping aside.
Not because I believe the road will always be easy.
Because I believe in them.
There is a difference.
I believe in Teya with everything I am. I don't know exactly what her life will look like, where it will take her, what will challenge her, or who she will become along the way.
And I don't need to.
Because come what may, I believe she will meet whatever stands before her with courage, kindness, humor, determination, and the light she already carries within her.
Maybe that's one of the hardest transitions in parenting.
At first, you hold their hand because you're afraid they'll fall.
Eventually, you let go because you know they can fly.
The painting is titled: “Come What May” 36 × 60 inches Oil on panel CLICK HERE
