I was telling a friend recently that one of the things that scares the daylight out of me is raising a child. Not the type of fear that makes you run away from the idea, but the kind that humbles you. The kind that makes you pause and reflect on how much weight comes with bringing a life into this world, not just biologically, but spiritually, emotionally, and purposefully.
I’ve looked at my childhood, looked closely, and pounded as expected of someone who is naturally introspective and critical, and there are so many layers to unravel. I see myself, my siblings, and my parents. I can’t say I was the easiest child to raise. I wasn’t difficult in the usual way, I wasn’t particularly stubborn or rebellious per se, but I was different. I had a mind of my own. I still do. And I know now that every child does. That’s how God wired us.
Every child carries a unique calling, gifts, dreams, and a purpose that is often different from what their parents imagined. And that’s where the tension begins. Because as a parent, how do you carry what God has deposited in your child without placing your own expectations, or fears? How do you nurture their dreams without projecting your own? How do you discipline without breaking their spirit? How do you guide without controlling?
In many Nigerian homes, we grow up under a heavy cloak of expectation. The unspoken rules: Don’t shame the family. Don’t forget the name you carry. Be the good child. And while these expectations were often born from love and legacy, they sometimes left little room for self-expression.
As a child, I learned to live in that tension, between honoring my parents and honoring the person I was becoming. And now, as I think of raising children of my own someday, I carry that tension differently. I now stand on the side of the one who must protect the balance. I will have dreams for my children, of course. I will. But I never want my dreams to become their chains. I never want to raise children who must choose between obedience and authenticity.
That is my greatest fear about parenting, and at the same time, one of my deepest dreams. I want to be the kind of mother who supports her children with love, with faith, with resources, and with understanding. I want to help them discover who they are in Christ, and give them the freedom to live out that identity fully and boldly. I want to discipline, but not dominate. I want to guide, not dictate.
All these thoughts have been bubbling up for many years, but this is the first time I am expressing it in writing. Well, it’s Mother’s Day. While I look forward to the day I’ll hold my own child in my arms, I’m also deeply apprehensive of the responsibility that follows after. The real work is not in childbirth, it’s in the years after. In the conversations. In the prayers. In the letting go and growing together.
So I study. I reflect. I talk to people. I listen. I observe. I prepare. But I also know that no matter how much I prepare, much of the learning will happen on the go. Parenting is a journey that unfolds one day, one moment at a time. And that’s okay.
In the end, I choose to trust God. Because if He entrusts me with a soul, then I believe He will also equip me to steward it well according to His will. All I can do is stay prayerful, stay teachable, and keep showing up.
It looks overwhelming and I’m quite apprehensive. But it’s also a great endeavor and ultimately fulfilling when done right. And I’m here for it, when the time comes.
