“Parents seldom release their children, leading children to release their parents. They move forward, they relocate, and the moments that once defined them are overtaken by their own achievements. It’s often not until later that children realize their stories and accomplishments rest atop the narratives of their parents—stones upon stones, submerged beneath the waters of their lives.” — Paulo Coelho
Recently, I stumbled upon a video of my kids watching a family home movie from when my oldest was just 5 months old. The sights and sounds drew me in. It wasn’t the adorable chubby cheeks of my baby that caught my attention; rather, it was the sight of my mother as she once was. Hearing her voice unleashed a torrent of emotions. I had almost forgotten what she sounded like, and I was reminded of our interactions—me, a nervous first-time mom, and her, the proud new grandmother.
Since March 2010, my mother has been battling Alzheimer’s, leaving me with plenty of time to reflect.
I’ve spent countless hours considering how different I am from my mother. It’s a strange mix of guilt, rebellion, and self-discovery. My mom, a tall, slender, blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman, was gentle, soft-spoken, and self-effacing. She would give you the last cookie without hesitation. Her world revolved around her family and her faith, and her response to any problem, big or small, was simply, “Pray about it.” She was the epitome of a devoted Southern Baptist pastor’s wife, always seated in the front row at church.
In contrast, I’m a short, sturdy, brunette with brown eyes, full of questions and often short on answers. If my kids were to describe me, I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t use any of the descriptors I associate with my mom. They’d probably say: Passive? Nope. Soft-spoken? Not a chance! Fragile? Not even close. Self-sacrificing? Maybe, but don’t expect me to share my snacks!
Despite our stark differences in personality and parenting style, I’ve come to realize that my mother and I share significant similarities that I might have missed by focusing solely on our contrasts. She was an English teacher, my very first educator. She instilled in me a love for writing and the written word. Her dream was to be a missionary in Africa. While she never made it there, she devoted many years to serving in South America. When her parents fell ill, she brought her family back to the U.S. to care for them during their final days.
Now, I see the resemblance starting to come into focus.
Here I am, also an English teacher, my children’s first guide in their educational journey. I’ve taken them to libraries and bookstores from a young age, nurturing their love for reading. While Africa wasn’t on my agenda, I did dream of wide-open spaces. We moved, without ever seeing it first, to Colorado. When family emergencies arose, we packed up and returned to the East Coast to care for our ailing loved ones. My mother’s influence is evident in these decisions, even if it’s not immediately clear in my personality or looks.
I’m continuously evolving as a mom. My children see me as a confident woman who is passionate about my career and deeply cares for others. They know I’ll advocate for what’s right and use my voice when necessary. I’m not just sitting in the front row; I’m working alongside my partner in life, equal and engaged.
My daughter affectionately calls me “muscle mama,” acknowledging both my physical and emotional strength. Each day, I strive to become a better version of myself without sacrificing my identity as a mother. I hope they recognize that my self-worth is just as crucial as theirs.
I once came across 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 don’t hear my mother’s voice guiding me anymore, and I miss the soothing tone that was once so familiar. Yet, I can still find her essence in the key life choices that have shaped who I am today. Mom and I may have taken vastly different paths; where she chose “right,” I often went “left.” But when it came time to pursue our dreams, nurture our children, and support our loved ones, we both showed up in the best ways we knew how.
I will never be my mother, and that’s perfectly fine. I wish I could have one last chat with her to see how she feels about that. I know some of my choices would likely disappoint her, while others would fill her with pride. I’d like to think she’d be glad to see she raised a strong, independent daughter who’s forging her own path. But if I’m honest, she might prefer I took a more traditional route, with fewer risks and questions.
I don’t parent like my mother did. She brought me into this world and taught me so much about love and life. I can embrace and celebrate our differences, recognizing that we have so much in common in terms of our shared values and desires. I will honor her by showing up to motherhood—not as her, but as myself—every single day.
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In summary, while I may not mirror my mother’s style of parenting, I carry her legacy forward in my own unique way, blending her lessons with my individuality.