I’m a very lucky girl. Girl? Woman. Not only do I get to be a mother of one very funny boy and have all-time access to kid-friendly venues that make me feel like a girl again, but I also possess something special that’s talked about a lot in design communities all over the world.

LEGO. No. Innocence. Innocence? Yes, innocence.

There’re many talks and workshops on how to unlock the childlike innocence for creative process. Tune in to childlike nature. Connect with childlike vision. They teach grown-up creatives to stay curious and confident. Not overthink. Rebel against perfectionism. Break free from the rules. Enjoy the process. And other things that come naturally to kids and cause existential crisis in adults.

Luckily, I don’t need a workshop. I live with a little guy who paints raspberry clouds with purple shells and draws aliens that look like monkeys. Watching him create makes me jealous in a sweet kind of way because I want my brain to be free like his brain but I don’t get salty or upset that I can’t achieve it to that extent.

Because I won’t achieve it to that extent. That head of mine has too much clutter. The one I started collecting when social norms and expectations began to sink in. And rules.

All sorts of rules. Being a good girl kind of rules. Social etiquette rules. Inequality rules. Immigration rules. Corporate rules. Silicon Valley rules. Design rules. Perfectionism rules. And other rules… More rules…

Screw rules. For the sake of creativity at least. Because when we create through the maze of constraints, the result is worlds away from the innocent expression I see in my son's art. Or other children’s art who don’t yet create from the place of anxiety or competition. Who don’t try to impress. Or don’t try hard at all.

That’s why those workshops are so popular. As adult designers, we struggle to get to the space where our creativity flows in its purest form, before self-doubt and censorship emerge. We’re sandwiched between social media algorithms, trending styles, likes and approvals. We’re sauced with past traumas, present dramas, and future uncertainties.

To be honest, if it wasn’t for my son, I don’t think I’d start to rethink my approach to creativity. Mostly because I wouldn’t have many reasons to pause, take a step back, and really think if I’m drawing from a place of trend or if I’m drawing from my head. Freely. The practice I started earlier this year in my sketchbook that still terrifies me.

My son draws and builds and sings and dances from his head and freely all the time. He’s not terrified. He makes my portraits special. Hilarious. Non-human. I might appear as a lobster today, an insect tomorrow, or simply a collection of shapes that capture the feeling of what I mean to him in that moment.

And when it looks like a lobster, I’m not entirely sure it actually is one. But I don’t ask because I don’t want for him to adopt the line of thinking where everything he creates needs to fall under a category of something that already exists. Because it shouldn’t. Because it’s awesome if it doesn’t.

I’m trying hard to learn this innocence, but it is. Hard. There’re a lot of things he doesn’t do that I can’t help but do. He doesn’t plan, he doesn’t sketch. He doesn’t know of composition. He discovers color combinations, completely unaware of a color wheel concept. He doesn't try to "develop his style", this is his style.

He just does things and those things work.

I wish I could do that. Five years in the motherhood, I feel like I’m still learning the basics. Like being able to publish a wonky sketch and not want to delete it minutes after. Or accepting that art pieces that don’t align with the visuals of cool cats on design block have just as much value. Maybe I do need a workshop after all.

It’s a process, and I’m going through it. Slowly. Feeling so incredibly lucky to have this beautiful boy who is kind and generous and willing to share the way his imagination works with me. One raspberry cloud and a monkey alien at a time.