“Parents often cling to their children, yet children learn to let go. They move on and find their own paths, layering their achievements atop the narratives of their parents, like stones beneath the surface of a river.” —Paulo Coelho
Recently, I stumbled upon a home video featuring my eldest when he was just a tiny 5-month-old. As I watched, I was captivated not so much by his first Christmas but by the sight of my mom in her prime. Hearing her voice again opened a floodgate of memories I thought I had locked away. It reminded me of our interactions—me as a nervous new mom and her as an enthusiastic Grandma.
Since she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in 2015, I’ve had ample time to reflect on the ways I differ from my mother. It’s a curious mix of guilt, rebellion, and introspection. My mom, a tall blonde with soft blue eyes, was gentle, quiet, and selfless to a fault. She was the kind of woman who would give you her last cookie without a second thought. Her entire existence revolved around her family and her faith, and her go-to solution for any problem was simply, “Pray about it.” She embodied the classic image of a Southern Baptist preacher’s wife, always in the front pew on Sundays.
In contrast, I’m a petite brunette with brown eyes and a tendency to question everything. If my kids were to describe me, “passive” or “soft-spoken” would not be on the list. I can almost hear them: “Passive? Nope. Fragile? Not a chance. Self-sacrificing? Maybe, but she would never share her fries!”
Yet, despite our differences, I have come to realize we share significant traits that I nearly overlooked while fixating on our contrasts. Mom was an English teacher, my first mentor, who instilled in me a love for language. Her dream was to be a missionary in Africa. While she never made it there, she dedicated years to serving in South America. When her parents became ill with Alzheimer’s, she moved back to the U.S. to care for them.
Suddenly, I see the connections crystal clear.
I’m now an English teacher myself, nurturing my children’s love for books since they were babies, and I’ve turned our family into a bunch of avid readers. I didn’t dream of Africa, but I did envision wide-open spaces, leading us to relocate across the country to Colorado. When my husband’s parents fell ill, we packed up again to care for them back on the East Coast. Even though my personality and appearance may differ from my mother’s, her influence is undeniably present in my choices.
I’m still growing into my role as a mom. My kids see me as a confident woman deeply invested in my career and community, someone who speaks up for what she believes in. I may not sit in the front pew at church, but I stand shoulder to shoulder with my husband as an equal partner.
My daughter affectionately calls me “muscle mama,” recognizing my strength—both physical and emotional. Every day, I strive to be the best version of myself, showing my kids that being a mother doesn’t mean losing my identity. After all, my self-worth is just as significant as theirs.
I once saw a meme that said, “Sometimes when I open my mouth, my mother comes out.” I chuckled at how that doesn’t apply to me. I miss her gentle voice, but I find her in the choices I make and the path I carve. Although our journeys differ greatly—where she turned right, I often turned left—we both showed up for our families in the ways we knew best.
I’ll never be my mother, and that’s perfectly fine. I often wonder how she would react to my choices; some might disappoint her, while others would surely make her proud. I like to think she would be happy to see her independent, forward-thinking daughter who is daring to forge an unconventional path for her family. However, she might still wish I had chosen a safer route with fewer questions.
I don’t parent like my mom did. She brought me into this world and taught me invaluable lessons about love and life. I celebrate our differences, recognizing that we’re more alike in our shared love and aspirations than in what separates us. I honor her by being the best version of myself in motherhood every single day.
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Summary:
In reflecting on the differences between her parenting style and her mother’s, Lisa Johnson celebrates the unique path she has forged in motherhood while honoring her mom’s legacy. While she recognizes that they are vastly different in personality and approach, she also acknowledges the deep connections they share through their values, choices, and love for family.