My mother is dying.

She has two types of cancer slowly eating away at her insides. She’s on a maintenance regimen of chemotherapy that is killing the bad—but also slowly killing the good. Her body is exhausted. She’s on over a dozen different medications, many of which she probably doesn’t need, and we are in the process of comforting her while her body fades and her soul journeys back into that realm of peace. 

And still—
I am grateful.

I am grateful for my mother. She was the vessel I chose to bring me into this world so I could experience humanity—the emotions, the joy, the mess, the love, the pain—everything I needed to fulfill the purpose God has for me. She caused chaos most of the time. She showed up when it mattered. She fought storms within herself. She fought institutions long before I ever knew I would have to. And she loves her children. She truly does.

As we approach the end of her life, my thoughts keep circling back to my oldest daughter, Jay.

Jay looks just like me. And I look just like my mom. Almond-shaped brown eyes. Dark hair. Dark features. An hourglass figure that runs straight down the maternal line. We are all intuitive. All artistic. All capable of delivering the look—the one that needs no explanation.

But we are also very different.

My mother was not perfect. She made a lot of mistakes. But she was the best mom she knew how to be. She carried her own disorder, shaped by childhood trauma—alcoholic parents, adoption, genetics she never got to choose. She is scrappy. She army-crawled her way through life.

She forced herself into uncomfortable spaces—going back to college, earning her degree, becoming a counselor, giving speeches even though she was terrified to speak in front of people. She showed up for me again and again.

But she didn’t really raise me.

She didn’t guide me. She didn’t hover. You could never accuse her of being a helicopter parent. And the truth is, she gave me one of the greatest gifts she possibly could have: she let me be me. She let me learn the hard way. She let me fail. She let me figure out how to accomplish things on my own—how to discover my strengths, my passions, my resilience—without interference.

When Jay was born, I knew immediately she would be named after my parents. She was the spitting image of my mother, with the spirit of my father. Two broken people who found each other in the most unlikely circumstances and created me.

And now, here I stand—between generations.

I am a very different mother than my mom was. I mother my children differently, intentionally. I am deeply involved. I guide them. I listen. I push them when needed. I reprimand when necessary. I protect fiercely. I show up consistently.

Not because my mother didn’t love me.

But because I learned—through living—what I needed, and what I didn’t.

Jay carries that legacy in her bones.

And because I see it so clearly, I mother her differently.
I am not here to erase my mother’s story.
I am here to refine it.

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Scripture Reflection

“Children are a heritage from the Lord, offspring a reward from Him.”
Psalm 127:3

Heritage does not mean perfection. It means inheritance—both the beauty and the burden.

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The Daughter I Am Raising

There are things about Jay that irritate me.

The intensity.
The stubbornness.
The way she questions everything.
The way she does not bend easily.
The way she feels everything deeply and reacts accordingly.

And then it hits me.

Those are the very same traits that are going to make her successful.

That fire I sometimes want to extinguish is the fire that will protect her. That determination that challenges me now will one day serve her in rooms where she is underestimated. That refusal to comply blindly — the thing that can exhaust me as a mother — will be the very thing that keeps her from being controlled, silenced, or diminished.

I recognize it because I lived it.

Those were the parts of me that were misunderstood. The parts that were labeled “too much.” The parts my mother didn’t know how to guide — so she let them run wild.

I do not want to tame Jay.

I want to teach her how to use her power.

Scripture Reflection

“Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past.
See, I am doing a new thing.”
Isaiah 43:18–19

There is permission here—to honor what was while choosing what will be.

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Mothers and daughters are bound by more than blood. We are bound by patterns, by survival, by intuition, by healing. We carry forward what served us. And we stop what didn’t.

This is not a rejection of the women who came before us.
It is an evolution.

And that, I believe, is holy work.