MN to NYC to LA and back to MN
When attempting to make sense of everything that brought me to this point, my mind scatters. I often have trouble saying too much or not saying anything at all. So instead of dissecting every step of this journey, allow me just to share the messy essence of my experience as a creator from Minneapolis to New York City, Los Angeles, and back home to Minneapolis (for now).
I still grapple with calling myself an artist, but a friend recently reminded me that's not for me to decide. What I do know is that my creative practice is an intrinsic part of me, evolving and taking fuller shape with each step of my journey.
My mother immigrated from Nigeria to Minneapolis in the ’90s. Most of my context for life came from a woman who left her home to pursue something bigger, even if her version of “bigger” was simply to have a family, live, and work in a place that offered more than her own country could. So it felt like a natural progression for me, when I was able, to set out from my home and pursue something bigger, too.
For me, "bigger" meant carving out a life where I could sustain myself and family through my creativity and passion for storytelling. So in a way, much like America was made to look like the land of opportunity to my mother growing up in Nigeria, New York shimmered as a creative mecca for me growing up in Minnesota.
It's a story often told—the pressure of being a first or second-gen in America. But until you've been raised by a Nigerian single mother of three, navigating motherhood and a new country alone, you can't understand why I must mention it. My decision to pursue art wasn't driven solely by passion but by necessity. Given my upbringing, I couldn't choose a path without considering how it would honor my mother's sacrifices and support my family.
Let's be honest: believing that art and creative direction are your best bet for survival means one thing—it is your best bet because you'd perish without it, and you can't help anyone if you're gone. Necessity.
When I first moved to NYC, I carried a heavy chip on my shoulder—the weight of making it all worthwhile. I half-jokingly blame hip-hop for this feeling. I remember blasting "New York Times" by J. Cole and 50 Cent on repeat during the entire flight. Officially, I was arriving for a job as an art director and producer in advertising, but in reality, that job was merely the vehicle funding my first solo creative project in artist management and creative direction. I wanted to work with who I believed would be the next big thing.
I didn't grasp how deeply my Minneapolis roots shaped me as a creator until I was deep into my NYC journey, managing and leading creative direction for my first client. True, I was gritty, but despite my limited resources, I refused to compromise on quality and storytelling, not even an inch more than I already had to. I also made it a priority to nurture collaborative relationships from every angle. That's Minnesota black artist shit.
New York was a lesson on trusting myself and my process. I didn’t mind having my head down and not putting out art consistently if I believed I was on the verge of creating something with a greater impact than any single piece of content. Besides, no one was really watching anyway. While storytelling through photo, film, and experiences is my passion, it's always driven by a larger mission—to create something that resonates beyond the confines of social media.
To a creator: don’t be afraid to disappear and put your heart and soul into something you feel the world needs. I put my heart and soul into my client at the time and the work now speaks for itself.
When there isn’t a title for what you want to do with your career or a specific pathway, you have no choice but to take on many roles, be misunderstood, and forge your own path. That's precisely what I was doing. I never set out to make artist management my career—that was always clear to me. My passions lie in images, film, music, media, fashion, strategy, and the unique perspective of being a Black girl. I love advertising, branding, social experiments, and I love creativity. Though I’m not a mathematician, I could calculate that managing and championing an artist like Doechii in her early days would grant me a leadership role and a lens to engage with all these interests. I remember our early sessions when she said, "I want you to treat me like a product, like your own business." That was music to my ears.
Leading Doechii’s early career as my first client was my greatest education—one I’d choose over any formal training. The best way to discover who you are and refine your practice as a creator is through action, and that’s all we did. We dreamt beyond the bounds of reason, conceived bold ideas, planned quickly, and executed with passion, then did it all over again.
While I often downplay my corporate advertising experience, it had a profound impact on me. Watching billion-dollar brands commission my employer to create work that rarely sparked my excitement was draining, but I couldn’t help but admire the seamless efficiency and collaboration of the advertising agencies. This process invigorated me and influenced how I approach my own practice with clients. I often thought to myself, “They don messed up letting a girl like me from round the way in here, cause I’m leaving here with somethin.”
To be completely honest, I was on my shit in New York. I hadn’t completely lost myself yet. I’ll give all of that credit to Los Angeles.
So, my head was down in New York. I was focused. My client and I had a couple of music videos out, and were starting to get a system down. I was sitting in my Brooklyn apartment with my roommates, playing a game of “We’re Not Really Strangers.” My roommate Hana (whom I still love dearly) drew a card that asked, “What’s one thing I don’t have that you wish I did?” We each took turns answering, and when it was my turn, I said, “More faith.” I saw Hana’s gifts and talents so clearly, and I could imagine countless possibilities for what she could achieve with just a little more faith.
Right after answering that question, I checked my Instagram and saw a follow from someone at Top Dawg Entertainment—the musical home of Kendrick Lamar, SZA, and Schoolboy Q. My excitement was palpable. I looked up and told my roommates, “Someone from TDE just followed me. Watch this turn into an opportunity for Doechii.” Before I could even finish the sentence, I received a DM from them, asking to jump on a call. They invited us to LA for a week, all expenses paid. Soon enough, I found myself in LA, signing my first client to Top Dawg Entertainment.
See, I had faith to get me places, but you need a lot more than faith when you reach the places you’ve prayed for. My eyes were wide. Now I was living in LA, getting a firsthand glimpse of a life I had never been exposed to but had longed my whole life for. If my time in New York was defined by keeping my head down and focusing on the work, moving to LA was the first time I looked up from all that intention and effort. I felt like a fish out of water, grappling with the new reality.
As I moved to Los Angeles with a client whose recognition was growing, I began to attract more attention myself. The first sign of this shift was when creatives from my hometown, who had barely acknowledged me before, started to notice and follow my work. Even music industry heavyweights—label presidents, famous artists, directors, and other influential figures—began to engage with me. It was anything but subtle. That’s when insecurity began to seep in, and I started to lose sight of the mission. I was quickly forgetting that I needed my creative practice to live and began living for (an aspect of) my creative practice. This was dangerous ground; I had shifted from forging my own path to becoming attached to a potential outcome that promised stability for myself and my family. First-gen shit.
A word of advice for artists and creators: Don’t let success in one area of your practice cause you to abandon the passions that originally fueled your love for it. And if you start chasing the money, know that a crash is often on the horizon. If you do end up choosing that path, I hope you emerge unscathed.
After some time, my client and I ended up parting ways, and instead of taking a moment to collect myself and heal after that insane run, I decided to ride the adrenaline and push forward. I was anxious to seize my next opportunity without pausing to reflect on the fresh past and the wounds I had accumulated.
In LA, I worked myself to the bone. I returned to full-time production at one of the city’s most demanding advertising agencies, while simultaneously nurturing the connections I had made in the music industry, working on various creative projects, and balancing the production of my first short film back home in Mpls. My days were consumed by producing commercials, my nights by dedicating my creative practice to other people’s projects. Whenever I could, I sought solace in photography until the next opportunity arrived. I was so immersed in the grind that I didn’t realize my greatest opportunities came from pursuing projects that were personally meaningful to me. Countless late nights, countless tears. No one sees the countless hours you invest in your craft; they only see the final product. So remember to make your bed where you are, and don't lose yourself in the chase for external validation, no matter where it comes from.
Thankfully, and although it wasn’t my intention, the time I spent lending my creativity to others was slowly turning me into a beast. It was refining aspects of my creative practice that would later reveal a fuller picture of who I am as an artist and creator.
To cut the LA story short, I crashed out—though that’s a soberingly honest reflection for another day. Returning home to Minneapolis, I premiered my first short film and quickly realized I needed to reconnect with what I loved. It dawned on me that somewhere along the way, I had abandoned myself and my craft in pursuit of something I thought was “bigger”—a life where I could support myself and my family through my creativity and love for storytelling. While this remains a goal, it can no longer be my sole focus. Embracing this realization requires daily shedding and relinquishing control. I now create to live, leaving the rest to God.
It was time to start over. So, I packed up my apartment in LA and returned to Minnesota, taking a much-needed break from social media and everyone except my family. Life compelled me to pause, reflect, cry, pray, tend to my wounds, and ask myself who I am now and how I want to move forward.
What a journey it’s been!
Recently, I've been slowly emerging from my shell, and my approach to work feels renewed and pure. It’s no longer tied to a specific place or outcome. I have visions that I'm ready to bring to life, and most importantly, I now know who I am—and even more, whose I am.
