i just graduated from stanford engineering--and left my job to make videos.

on choosing art, over and over

hey, cole! so, what do you do?

well... i’m a content creator.

creative technologist.

artist.

do we need to label identities that are still taking shape?

this january, while wrapping up my final year of college, i started posting videos showing creative people how to use emerging technology. people started knowing me as cova.

and a month ago, i left my job to see what would happen if i gave this my all.

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hyphen posts will now be dropping every tuesday! stay tuned ~

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so, how did we get here?

growing up, home smelled like paint.

mom was an art teacher, and made sure my sister and i drew a lot.

when we were making art, the world started to make sense. feelings could become hues and shapes. it was a simple realization that changed the way i saw things, which was always in relation to form and color.

during middle school and high school, i struggled with making friends, so i would skip activities in a pile of discarded couches and gym equipment on the fifth floor. on old wrestling mats, i’d sketch little characters while laughter echoed from the gym below. i preferred building my own world while the “real” activities happened elsewhere.

at stanford, i would rush through computer science assignments just to get back to whatever creative experiment i was working on at the time (procreate dreams, merch designs, some new tool). my fingers would literally itch during algorithms lectures.

i got the internships, did the hackathons, worked in AI when that became cool. your work funds your passion.

after directing my first video for stanford’s ar/vr club because i wanted to learn video-making, i was hooked. VFX was a cool way to visualize technology. i started landing gigs, making videos for others, until a friend watched me edit for the hundredth time and said something that stopped me.

you do all this for others. if you made videos for yourself, i actually think you can make it as a creator.

i took those words to heart and started posting, once or twice a month. at first, it was terrifying: what if the algorithm confirmed i was meant to stay hidden, and my friends saw me flop?

now, 25 videos and 200k followers later, my videos have reached an audience beyond anything i’ve ever dreamed of.

shortly after graduating, i landed a full-time dream role at one of the most lucrative tech startups in the world, and while it was fun for a while, i felt an old itch come back. now, it was impossible to do both, to be half-in-half-out of everything.

so i chose being a content creator.

creative technologist.

an artist.

whatever label i describe myself as, i know i’ve chosen art. the thing i’d been running from, and toward, for a long time.

when i think about what i did, i think about a chinese concept, “jing shen”. it means roughly “spirit” in english, but more than that, it means this drive to live that comes from some internal wellspring. that same place that would make you skip scouts to draw, or make your fingers start to itch in lecture halls.

the reasons why (i quit)

i want to tell stories.

something is so beautiful about the act of showing up for someone. when that person chooses to spend their irreplaceable minutes with you, to let your voice and your story connect with them and fill their morning kitchen or late-night stillness.

i want to tell the truth.

working in tech, i had trouble performing passion. i always felt slightly uncomfortable when my obligation was not solely towards my audience. when you make something and share it directly, there’s no bureaucracy between you and the truth.

i want to exist in a kinder space.

in tech, and especially in AI, i’ve felt like my sense of what mattered was constantly fragmented, rebuilt, and destroyed. AI is important, but the work is carnivorous. everyone’s building the thing that will replace everyone else. your work is obsoleted by next week’s model. labs cannibalize each other for the same talent pool.

creator-land has its toxicity, but i have found it to be much kinder. when you put your stories and self on the line every day, it changes you. storytelling demands this paradox. thick skin for the feedback, care for the people who trust you with their time. building your own compass, finding your corner of the internet to care for, takes a lot of courage. i think that’s why this work tends to produce genuinely good people, in my opinion.

i want to be a bridge.

i think artists are being left behind in conversations about their own future. similarly, i think technologists are curious about the doors to creativity new tools open. i want to be trusted by artists and technologists because i advocate for both in those rooms, though i am first and foremost an artist.

it is possible to do this.

content creation can be financially viable, even lucrative in some niches. however, it is easy to lose yourself. this is a long topic, so i will probably write about it in another article.

there will not be a time like this ever again.

creativity is about to undergo the biggest transformation in history. i think someone needs to document this revolution—to show how their world changes.

traditional career paths are dead.

the explosion of “efficient”, AI-generated content has led to rapidly declining trust in institutions. people are turn to creators as their sources of truth, the ones who show up, who provide a way to navigate existence.

life is too short not to be designed the way you want to live.

i’ve also always struggled with how a traditional career forces you to compartmentalize yourself into specific skills that become your identity. as a hyphenated human, being a creator allows me to be a holistic person.

previously, i’ve felt burned out trying to squeeze the things i cared about into the margins of my “real job”. through that, i’ve realized that telling stories wasn’t a nice-to-have for me.

it was something i had to do, so i could truly live as myself. or, at least, the version of myself i am right now.

i’m scared of the uncertainty that is being a creator. of losing myself in the numbers. of missing the camaraderie that comes with a team. of loneliness. i suppose that’s also why i create, so others who feel the same can find me.

but freedom and fear often come together, and i love what i do now; it’s everything i wanted and perhaps even more.

now, i’m designing days without knowing tomorrow.

the path forward is uncertain, but i’m glad it’s mine.

and onwards.

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question for you: what’s been your creative journey so far?

what are you grappling with when it comes to navigating your professional & creative identity?