“Parents often find it hard to release their children, prompting those children to let go of their past. They move on and create new memories, overshadowing the moments that once defined them. It takes time for them to realize that their successes and stories build upon the foundational narratives of their parents.” —Paulo Coelho
Recently, I stumbled upon an old home video of my eldest when he was only five months old. As I watched, I was captivated not just by my baby’s milestones but by the presence of my mother in that moment. Hearing her voice brought back a rush of emotions I hadn’t anticipated. It was a poignant reminder of her essence—something I had almost forgotten since her mind began to fade due to Alzheimer’s in 2018.
Reflecting on my differences from my mother has become a journey of self-discovery. My mother, a tall, graceful blonde with soft blue eyes, embodied gentleness and selflessness. She devoted herself to her family, always putting our needs before her own. If there was a single cookie, she would hand it to me without hesitation. Her life revolved around her family and her faith, and her go-to advice for any problem was simply, “Pray about it.” She was the epitome of a Southern Baptist preacher’s wife, proudly taking her place in the church every Sunday.
In stark contrast, I am a short, robust brunette with brown eyes—someone who tends to ask more questions than provide answers. My children would likely describe me in ways that would baffle my mother. Passive? Not at all. Gentle? More like assertive. Self-sacrificing? Perhaps, but I’ve learned to prioritize my needs too.
Despite our differences, I’ve come to recognize the similarities that connect us. Like her, I am an English teacher and my children’s first educator. I’ve nurtured a love for reading in them, just as she did for me. While she aspired to be a missionary in Africa, I dreamt of open spaces, leading us to move across the country to Colorado. And when we faced family challenges, we returned to the East Coast to provide support—decisions echoing her compassion and dedication, even if we diverge in style.
As I continue to evolve as a mother, my children see me as a confident woman who values her career and community. I stand beside their father as an equal partner, rather than merely supporting him from the sidelines. My daughter affectionately calls me “Muscle Mama,” acknowledging both my physical and emotional strength. I hope they recognize that embracing my own identity as a mother doesn’t mean sacrificing who I am.
I once encountered a saying that resonated with me: “Sometimes when I open my mouth, my mother comes out.” I chuckled, realizing how little that applied to me now. While I miss her gentle voice, I see her influence in the significant decisions that shape my life. Though our paths differ—where she took the “right” path, I often opted for the “left”—we both showed up for our families in the best ways we knew how.
I may never mirror my mother’s approach, and that’s perfectly fine. I wish I could have one last conversation with her about it. Some choices I’ve made might disappoint her, while others would likely fill her with pride. I’d like to believe she would appreciate the independent, forward-thinking daughter I’ve become, even if she might prefer a more traditional route for me.
I do not mother in the same way my mother did. She brought me into this world and imparted invaluable lessons about life and love. I embrace and celebrate our differences and recognize that our shared values and desires are what truly connect us. Each day, I honor her by stepping into motherhood as my authentic self.
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Summary:
This reflection explores how the author embraces her unique journey in motherhood, highlighting the differences and similarities between herself and her mother. While she doesn’t follow her mother’s path, she honors her influence by being her authentic self, prioritizing her identity as a mom while raising her children.
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