NdukuOutLoud

A reflection on inherited habits, evolving motherhood, and the quiet courage to rewrite the script

Yesterday was Sunday. On Sundays we go to church-most Sundays, at least. On others we stay indoors and drive each other crazy. That’s what happens when an independent mother has to deal with a more independent, stubborn, feisty six-year-old who is probably just another version of herself.

This Sunday was a church day. Preparing went smoothly at first, until the questions began:
Why are we going? Do we have to go every Sunday? But our neighbors don’t go. If we don’t go, will we not go to heaven?

Usually, I have answers ready. But yesterday I paused. I wanted to say we were going to seek God-but I know better now. God isn’t confined to a building. And how could I explain to a child why He would only be found in our church, and not the one at the gate, or the one where people gather on Saturdays?

I thought of saying we were going to praise and worship. That’s true-I love praise, I love worship. But she doesn’t grasp that yet. Half the time, during worship, she ends up comforting me, checking if I’m okay.

I could have told her we’d play afterward. That would have been enough. She would have sat peacefully through the service, waiting for her turn to enjoy herself. But it had been raining, and I only wanted to come home and rest.

And sometimes I wonder: am I becoming the very thing I’ve tried so hard not to be? And if I am not, who am I becoming if not her?

And at the back of my mind-something I’m almost afraid to admit-was another reason we were going. Because that’s how I was raised. My mother made sure we went to church. Even now, as adults, we’re asked if we attended. If not, we must give valid reasons. If we change churches, we must explain ourselves. I wondered if I am becoming an extension of my mother.

It’s not just about church. I see her in myself when we quarrel about food. When I try to intimidate my daughter with a ‘look’ and she stares right back. When I check her homework before bed and wake her early to finish what’s undone. When I send her to the kitchen three times in ten minutes. When I make her finish her tea through tears because we do not waste food.

Some of these practices are good for her. They build discipline. But others are simply inherited cultures-habits we never questioned, traditions we followed without asking why.

That’s a hard truth to swallow for a young mom trying not to repeat the same mistakes. Trying to build a relationship based on love and respect, not fear. Trying to be a friend, too—because parents and children can be friends.

But some things are so deeply ingrained that resisting them feels like resisting your whole being. It takes extra effort not to fall back into what you know. Not to use the same manual if you’re hoping for different results.

And sometimes I wonder: am I becoming the very thing I’ve tried so hard not to be? And if I am not, who am I becoming if not her?

Maybe that’s not just my question-it’s ours. What patterns have you found yourself repeating, and which ones are you rewriting?