No One Showed Me How, So I’m Showing Them Different

Last night, sitting on the back porch with my husband—just the two of us and the quiet hum of the night—we sank into one of those deep, soul-baring conversations. The kind that doesn’t rush. The kind that only happens when the world goes still for a minute and the kids are finally tucked in, the chaos quieted, and we can just be.

We’ve been claiming this time lately. Our little ritual of reconnection under the stars, unpacking the invisible weight we carry through the day.

I told him about the heaviness that had been gnawing at the edges of my thoughts. The quiet ache I couldn’t name until I started to speak it out loud. We wandered into the topic of our parents—who they were, who we are now, and all the tangled roots in between. The ways we’ve tried to become something better for our kids… for ourselves. But no one ever handed us a guidebook. No one taught us how to grow past what hurt us.

We were thrown into adulthood dragging a history we never asked for, trying to raise children while still re-raising ourselves.

And even in our efforts to heal and evolve, we sometimes caught ourselves stumbling back into the very patterns we swore we’d never repeat. That’s when I said it—something that sat bitter on my tongue but needed to be said:

“I tried to be like my mom… because for a long time, I thought my mom was better than my dad.”

But she wasn’t.

And once that truth settled into me, once I peeled away the layers of loyalty and longing, I realized: I don’t want to be the kind of mother she was to me.

I want more for my children than what I was given.

More tenderness. More accountability.

More safety. More presence.

More truth, even when it’s hard.

Because breaking cycles isn’t just about choosing differently—it’s about choosing bravely. It’s about sitting with the grief of what you didn’t get, while still showing up every day to give your kids what you never had.

It’s about realizing that healing isn’t always a beautiful, Instagrammable process. Sometimes it’s crying on the porch while the neighbor’s dog barks and the past refuses to stay quiet.

But it’s also where change begins. In those small, gritty, sacred moments when you say, “This ends with me.”

And maybe that’s what real love looks like….not perfect, but determined. Not always graceful, but always growing.