Winning In Unexpected Places

Last September, I was listening to the introduction of an online course on parenting and leadership when my teenage daughter walked into my room. She needed an earpiece and intended to borrow mine; but when she noticed I was occupied, she sat on my bed and patiently waited for me to finish. Being that I was listening via my phone's speaker, she got to hear about the course too.

Then she asked me a question that caught me off guard:

"Momma, you're not seriously thinking of taking that course, are you?"

Curious, I asked her why. And her response blew my mind.

"Mum, you don't need it. Trust me, you're the best mother ever. I'm not saying this because you are my mother but because it is the truth. All my friends know this. I have never needed to look elsewhere for advice, encouragement, or counsel in my sixteen years of life. If you get any better than this, you will be God."

I was stunned. Speechless.

Not because I believed I had perfected motherhood or mastered the act of parenting; but because those words came from my own child. And because of this simple truth:

I never wanted children. It was never in my plans or dreams to have children.

It wasn't that I disliked or resented children. I actually loved them a lot. I enjoyed holding babies and loved playing with toddlers. However, there is a vast difference between enjoying children and choosing to be responsible for birthing and raising them.

During the early stages of my relationship with my husband, before I accepted his proposal, I told him clearly that I did not want children. I prayed and hoped he would feel the same way; but he didn't. Over time, love, persuasion, and my willingness to reconsider changed the trajectory of my life.

Today, I have children I love deeply.

Do I regret becoming a mother? No.

If I were given another chance at life, knowing what I know now, would I still prefer a child-free life? Yes.

The answer may sound contradictory; but it is not.

Loving my children wholeheartedly does not erase the reality that motherhood was not my original dream. Both realities can coexist, and I believe we don't talk enough about this complexity. The truth doesn't cancel my love or diminish my devotion. It doesn't erase the fierce protection I feel towards them, the sleepless nights, or the countless sacrifices made willingly.

It simply acknowledges something many women are afraid to say out loud:

You can be a good mother and love your children deeply, yet still recognise that motherhood was not your original dream.

Motherhood has stretched me, refined me, and humbled me. It has demanded from me far more than I ever planned to give. It has knocked off some dreams while firmly entrenching itself in their place.

Yet somehow, in the space where reluctance once lived, purpose grew.

Hearing my daughter's affirmation made me realise something:

Sometimes, we rise to roles we never envisioned for ourselves. Sometimes we thrive in assignments we never applied for.

Motherhood may not have been my dream; but it has become one of my greatest responsibilities, and perhaps one of my greatest achievements.

And as my daughter walked out of my room, I sat there, humbled. Not because I had done everything right, but because grace had filled the gaps where willingness once lacked.