Artist, mother, acrobat- ten years of circus

This spring marks ten years since I graduated and officially stepped into the world as a professional circus artist. Ten years since I threw my belongings into a suitcase, left school and its safe walls behind, and decided to build a life out of balancing on my head and on my hands — and dreaming up improbable things. It was the unknown that made it so exciting — and also terrifying. I remember thinking: Holy shit, how long will I actually do this? Is this really going to be it — my future? Or will I try for a few years and then realise it just doesn’t work?

Ten years might not sound like much in the grand scheme of things, but when your career path includes performing, glitter, chaos, bruises, standing ovations, empty audiences, van breakdowns, tours, travelling, training and more training, rigging, packing, spreadsheets, endless office hours, planning and re-planning, soul-searching, and a lot of duct tape
— ten years is something worth pausing for: 

I’ve performed in tents, theatres, streets, embassies, forests, beaches, and parking lots.
I’ve shared stages with strangers who became family.
I’ve co-founded not one, but two circus companies — 
Sisus and Based on Kimberly — each with their own pulse, vision, and brand of beautiful chaos.
I’ve written grant applications at 2 a.m., fixed costumes with safety pins, and built shows out of dead ideas and stubborn hope.
I’ve directed, produced, curated, collaborated, mentored — and been mentored.
I’ve watched circus evolve, and I’ve evolved right with it.

Somewhere along the way, I learned what this life is really about. Performing is only a small part of it. The real work happens behind the scenes — in hours of unpaid admin and invisible labour. Of course, the goal is not to work unpaid, and I’ve been lucky enough to get paid — eventually. Sometimes the paycheck arrived years after the actual work was done. Those first years were pure survival. Living with my parents or crashing on friends’ couches helped. No rent meant I could just about scrape by. I was alone, it was cheap, and I just needed to hold on. I honestly don’t know how I did it — but I’m proud of the younger me who somehow did. I’ve lost count of how many times people told me I should get a “real job.” I’m proud I didn’t listen. And anyway — if this isn’t real, what is?

After ten years, I know this much: the life of an artist is deeply unsustainable — and yet we sustain it. With part-time jobs, grants that barely cover the rent, and invisible hours of unpaid labour. And still, somehow, we create. We fill festivals, inspire strangers, and make something from nothing. But we shouldn’t have to survive like this to be taken seriously. We deserve infrastructure, trust, and fair pay.

Right now, I’m writing this blog at 9 p.m., while my child is sleeping and I’m about to start the office hours of the day. I remember a teacher once telling us to make all our artistic work before starting a family, because once you have kids, it just won’t be possible anymore. I like to think I’m proving him wrong. I guess that was never really about the art — it was about a system not built to support artists with care responsibilities. I hope we’re starting to shift that. I hope artists who are parents are no longer asked to choose between their child and their creative voice. Because those voices, our voices, matter. Because stories told by caregivers — by mothers — are just as vital. Maybe even more.

In 2025, being an artist sometimes feels like an act of resistance. We’re still explaining why art matters, still justifying budgets that wouldn’t cover a week of advertising for a tech start-up. The world keeps speeding up — algorithms, outputs, productivity — and we’re still here, making space for slowness, depth, connection. Art isn’t a luxury. It’s survival. It’s the stuff that helps us imagine better futures — or simply feel less alone in the now.

So here’s to ten years of saying yes 
<3 To the artists, friends and family who’ve held me up (literally and figuratively).
<3 To the younger me who dared to believe this could work.
<3 To the next chapter — whatever strange and wonderful shape it might take.

I promise to stay humble and curious, to know my value and to work hard.
I will keep exploring, keep learning, and stay interesting as an artist.
I will continue playing.
I will continue challenging myself — and my audiences — and at the same time keep my feet on the ground.

Thank you for watching, clapping, doubting, supporting, challenging, booking, ghosting, following, and believing.
I’ll be here — still trying to do what I love, one handstand at a time.