Space for Mother // Artists

Community building and one on ones with me.

This installment reflects on the quiet unfolding of weaning my son, the new visions that emerge from this transition, and the space it creates within me to deepen my creative work. It’s also a meditation on the beginnings of a new community I’m building—a Mother // Artist space where caregiving, creativity, and culture converge to resist the patriarchal forces that diminish these vital parts of our lives.

Yesterday marked the first full day in 3 years and 3 months that Aki didn't breastfeed. Since the start of summer, we've been having gentle, nightly conversations about how mama's milk isn't flowing like it once did and how he's growing into a big boy—how, eventually, there would come a time without "boobies." We've explored different emotions and learned to communicate and process them through art, play, and nature walks.

This journey has taught me the power of slowness, of building awareness and making space for transitions. Preparing for change with patience and intention allows for a depth that our society often overlooks—like weaning or other rites of passage that modern culture rarely supports us through. 

We've been snuggling more, and now, instead of "boobie and a book" at bedtime, it's "snuggle and a book." Every night, as he drifts off, Aki whispers, "Hug me tight, mama." He's so understanding, loving, and pure—I can't help but turn into a complete puddle of mush on the spot. My heart has been swelling and breaking daily for a million reasons, all woven together by the immense, unconditional love for him. This week, we're going to our favorite Weeping Willow to offer my milk as a gift to the earth, honoring our sacred journey. A gesture of gratitude and a way to close this chapter, wrapped in the presence of the living world that has carried us.

For the first time in years, I feel a deep need to be around other mothers and artists—those who, like me, have been tremendously transformed by this journey. While pregnant, I knew that in those first 2-3 years, I didn't want anyone else's wisdom—only my body's intuition to guide me.

Parenting books bore me. I don't like reading instruction manuals, and don't have time to weigh others' opinions about how to raise my kids. But when I read books about motherhood forged in self-reflection and told with literary elegance, I become a more self-reflective parent and have the eyes to see beauty in my ordinary maternal experiences." — Catherine Ricketts, The Mother Artist

I wanted to connect deeply with my son, to know myself and him without any outside influence. I didn't read books, didn't listen to podcasts, or engage with motherhood groups. I let our bond unfold in its own time, trusting everything we needed was already inside us. And it was as beautiful and magical as I'd imagined, as well as lonely, and exhausting in ways I'd never known. Now that I'm slowly finding my body again and understand our rhythms more, I've softened, slowed, and surrendered more to the flow of life and love; I see how much I need and long for support. How nourishing it is to be with other mothers, other artists, and other souls who, like me, have been shaped by the tender work of caregiving and the deep well of creative practice.

Reducing my screen time from 4 hours to 15 minutes a day has flung open the gates to the creative channels I used to inhabit. I now have more time to read books that inspire, guide, and give me language to express the unspoken experiences of being both a mother and an artist. I've been educating myself, envisioning what my offering to the world will be, especially now, as my independence approaches again and as we witness the painful polarization and genocides unfolding across the globe.

I grew up surrounded by a community of people and all living kin in Bosnia—neighbors, friends, family, animals, plants—each known by name. We celebrated life, death, and transition cycles, holding each other through seasons of war and poverty. We shared meals, laughter, and walks through the hills of our small town, swimming in rivers. No matter how near or distant our relationships were, we knew each other not just by our faces or words but also because we were all extensions of the land itself. The earth gave us life; in return, we were rooted in it. There was a quiet intimacy between us, not spoken but deeply understood, woven through our everyday lives in Vareš—a knowing that we belonged to the land in a way that felt sacred and simple.

To truly build community, we must be rooted in a place. We must belong to it. We must walk with the trees, swim in the rivers, and share our lives with the people of that land. We must show up, again and again, with intention and care. We must do the work that the oppressive systems don't want us to do—to protect the living world. 

How do we begin when we've been severed from each other, from nature, from the deep well of connection? When we are shaped by the constant noise of social media and the endless demands of capitalism? When so many times the coming together is transactional, performative, hierarchical, and shaped by the very systems that seek to divide us, it can feel like an impossible task to truly connect. How do we unite in community when so many have forgotten the way?

This is what I've come to understand in my own life as someone who became a hermit and lone wolf after being uprooted from my homeland and transplanted to Canada as a refugee. I learned to see through the lens of trauma, of survival through war, of the weight of displacement.

1. Offer time and make an effort. With the constant overload of messages urging us to guard our self-care and pushing us toward hyper-individualization, we forget that self-care is also community care. Even when you're tired, making an effort to meet a friend, support a local artist, volunteer, attend a protest, or welcome loved ones into your home—whatever it may be—is an act of giving. Look at your time as a gift exchange. Offering our time to each other says, "I love you. You matter. You're worthy of my time. You're not alone." Of course, you'll honor your limits and care for yourself wisely—but you understand the heart of it.

2. Show up exactly as you are. Your insecurities, pain, fears, challenges, confusion, anger, and grief are threads that weave your humanity. They are not things to hide or suppress but to offer within the sacred circle of community. These emotions are not your burdens alone; they are the shared experience of what it means to be human. Let go of the need to be perfect, to be extraordinary, to be a hero. Instead, embrace the fullness of who you are. Catalog all the ways you are human—feel them deeply and know they are your stories to tell. Your stories matter. They are worthy of being heard, of being held by others. Even in your most vulnerable moments, step out of hiding, and remember: the world is waiting to hold you, not turn its back on you.

I had many more thoughts on community building, but I set them aside, leaving only these two as a starting point—for myself and for anyone else who may find them meaningful.

I've been painting more, using color and abstraction to release grief and convey emotions. This process has fed my spirit deeply—it's a careful tending, a work that flows purely from feeling, from body and muscle memory.

Both motherhood and a career in the arts are rigorous and undervalued, so much of their work is unseen and unspoken. One of the reasons we moved to Toronto, this city that both entices and overwhelms me, is to build a community. Now that I'm no longer breastfeeding full-time, and hopefully, we'll soon be able to sleep more than three uninterrupted hours and finish a sentence when speaking, I've decided to create a space for Mother // Artists. A space where caregiving, creativity, and culture can thrive. A space to dismantle the isolation, exhaustion, and injustice imposed by capitalism and to reclaim our relationships from systems that fragment and deplete us.

The community of mother artists we're building—and the vision I hold—is rooted in a collective imagination that recognizes that the maternal perspective is not just meaningful to mothers but vital to the flourishing of the collective.

With love,

Vanja

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• One on One sessions for Mother // Artists are now available HERE.

• My only sale of the year started today:

  25% off everything in the shop, with free international shipping on clothing and posters. I've been organizing, designing the website, and prepping all the packaging with care, and truly hope you find something special for yourself and your loved ones.

  

• This book by Catherine Ricketts has truly inspired my offering, given me the language to express what I feel, and illuminated my path forward.

  

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