We caught up with the brilliant and insightful Jace Dakotah a few weeks ago and have shared our conversation below.

Jace, looking forward to hearing all of your stories today. We’d love to hear about when you first realized that you wanted to pursue a creative path professionally.

I couldn’t tell you the exact moment I knew I wanted to pursue a creative path. It wasn’t a singular lightbulb moment, more like a series of flickering candles lighting the way. But if I had to trace it back, it started somewhere between the chaos of my childhood and the quiet moments when I escaped into my own imagination. Growing up, love was always present, but stability wasn’t. My parents’ relationship was a pendulum swinging back and forth, and I was often caught in the middle, an outcast sibling with a different father, always feeling like I didn’t belong in the picture others had painted for me.

I spent years bouncing between households, listening to stories, observing, questioning. My grandparents’ farm in a small, isolating town became both a refuge and a prison. I’d stare at the open fields, feeling the weight of my own questions—the kind that seemed too big for an 8-year-old. But they were drowned out by everyone else’s expectations. Sports, not stories. Silence, not questions. Conformity, not creativity.

And yet, my mind wandered. I began collecting moments like souvenirs—knowing even then that some were irreplaceable. The warmth of my mother’s love, the ache of my father’s distance, the way people told stories without realizing how much they revealed about themselves. I didn’t know it yet, but I was a storyteller in training, absorbing everything, marking the lessons as they came.

It wasn’t until I picked up a pen and started writing that I felt I could breathe. My words were my way of organizing the mess, making sense of the people who surrounded me—flawed, beautiful, lost. I wanted to understand them, even the ones who hurt me, because I’ve always believed there are no villains, just people trying to figure out how to live without a manual.

When I finally made my first short film at 16, I realized that storytelling wasn’t just an outlet for me; it was a way to connect. It was like handing someone the blueprint of my brain and saying, “Here. This is how I see the world.” The process of creating, of building something from nothing, was hard—messy, even—but it was the first time I felt a sense of stability. The kind I had spent my entire life searching for.

One night, during the final stretch of filming my latest project, I sat under a blue super moon with my youngest cast member, who I called Little Jace, and he called me Big Jace. The cast and crew had all gathered to celebrate wrapping at our camp location, but something pulled me away from the noise and into the quiet of the open field. Jace had asked if I’d join him and his mom, and I said yes, not realizing how significant the moment would become.

The field stretched out in every direction, blanketed by the kind of night sky that can make even your biggest problems feel small. We sat there in the stillness, just the three of us, staring at the stars. Two comets streaked across the sky, like the universe was putting on a show just for us. Jace broke the silence first. He turned to me and said, “This set truly showed me what I want to do in life. It saved me.”

At 16, I don’t think I could have articulated the gravity of those words, but as I listened to him, I was overwhelmed. He went on to tell me how much he looked up to me, how he saw the care I put into every part of this project—not just for the story, but for the people involved. “You could’ve hung out with the other adults tonight,” he said, “but you chose to be here with me. I know God put us in this moment for a reason, even if we don’t know what it is yet.”

I sat there, unable to say much at first. Part of me wanted to argue with him. I felt so imperfect, so unworthy of that kind of admiration. But there was something about the way he spoke that quieted my self-doubt. He wasn’t looking at my mistakes or my flaws—he was seeing me for the effort, the passion, the care. And in that moment, I saw myself through his eyes.

“This was my Disneyland,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt more at home.” Those words stayed with me. They still do. It was the kind of honesty only a child could have, unfiltered and genuine. And it reminded me of something I had promised myself long ago—in the words of Mister Rogers, to never forget what it’s like to see the world as a child.

That night under the stars wasn’t just about me. It was about all of us, about the power of creating something bigger than ourselves. It was about letting go of the noise and being present. In that moment, the chaos of filmmaking—the exhaustion, the mistakes, the long nights—faded into the background, and I knew, with absolute clarity, that this is what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. I look up to him more than he will ever know. Because he shows something that is so hard to grasp, hope beyond your vision. That night, Little Jace grew, and the little Jace within me flickered to life, glowing with a light I was reminded was still there.

Storytelling has always been a way for me to make sense of the world, but that night, I realized it’s also a way to give others a place to feel understood, to feel at home. Jace reminded me of that. He reminded me why I create, and he reminded me to keep chasing the moments that truly matter. Moments like that one, with just me, him, his mom, and the stars.

Looking back, I realize that every moment of instability, every unanswered question, every loss, and every story I’ve heard has led me here. To this moment. To this path. Writing, creating—it’s how I’ve learned to make sense of the world. It’s how I’ve learned to love it, even when it’s hard to. And maybe, just maybe, it’s how I’ve learned to love myself, too. My Creative Mind.

Great, appreciate you sharing that with us. Before we ask you to share more of your insights, can you take a moment to introduce yourself and how you got to where you are today to our readers.

I write from a desire to make sense of the world around me. I turned to writing as a way to understand people.
A Creative Mind is my most recent project, and it reflects the chaos and curiosity of my own childhood and life. It’s raw, personal, and honest, it was a bit odd to sit in the directors seat and see my life reenacted. I love to reflect, this story is a reflection of itself. What sets my work apart I feel is its focus on the human condition, not through heroes and villains, but through real people navigating life’s messiness. My proudest moments come when someone says my work made them feel seen. That’s all I’ve ever wanted—for people to feel less alone, even for a moment, and to find beauty in their own story. I started HiddenLodge Films, my film company, to help others tell their stories, in an honest and sincere way.

How can we best help foster a strong, supportive environment for artists and creatives?

In my view, society can best support artists and creatives by offering space for authenticity and vulnerability to thrive. Too often, we’re told fit into predefined boxes, or waiting for the “right moment” or until we’re “just right” but creativity doesn’t work that way. It needs room to breathe, to be messy, to fail and start again. Artists need the freedom to explore without the weight of judgment or the pressure of commercial success hanging over them. I feel people need to let these young artists and creatives inspire them and show them their world, and help nurture and very healthy and beautiful outlet.

What creatives need most is a community that values process over perfection, where mistakes are celebrated as part of the journey, not something to be erased. We need mentorship and feedback, but also patience—patience to let ideas grow and evolve in their own time. Society can’t just admire the finished product
or the perks, it has to support the struggle, the late nights, the rewrites, and the risk. If we want artists to truly thrive, and more creative and original stories in television and film and less mass studio disingenuous money makers, we have to stop measuring their worth by external metrics and start honoring the deeper purpose of their work—connecting us all through unapologetic expression.

We often hear about learning lessons – but just as important is unlearning lessons. Have you ever had to unlearn a lesson?

That good people deserve good things. Growing up, I held onto this idea that if you’re kind and do things the right way, the universe will just hand you what you deserve. But life isn’t that simple, is it? Especially in the world of creativity. I learned the hard way that deserving doesn’t get you anywhere. It’s the work you put in—day in and day out—that shapes what you receive and always being true.

During filming my last film, I walked away with so many lessons learned but not with all of the answers. I realized that my value doesn’t come from some cosmic equation of right and wrong, but from my commitment to the craft, the dedication to my stories, and the persistence to keep going, even when things get tough. I can’t rely on deserving—I have to earn it, and often that means working harder than I thought I could. And you know what? That’s been the most freeing part of this journey. I’m not waiting for anything anymore. I’m making it happen, one step at a time.

Contact Info:

• Instagram: @Acreativemindfilm & @Jacedakotah
• Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/jace-dakotah
• Other: TikTok:
  @acreativemindfilm
  @jacedakotah