In my family, there’s a story that has repeated itself across generations—girls becoming mothers too young. My great-grandmother had her first child at 15. My grandmother did too. And so did I. A cycle, almost like a shadow, passed down from one branch of the family tree to the next.
When you start that young, you’re still lost. You don’t have a blueprint. There are no roadmaps or clear instructions on how to raise children while you’re still trying to figure out who you are. So often, there are words left unspoken, lessons never explained, and pain carried quietly. And yet, even in the middle of those cycles, something miraculous kept happening.
The grandmothers rose up.
It was always the grandmothers who carried the weight of the family on their backs. They stepped in, not because they wanted to repeat the pattern, but because they knew somebody had to hold everything together. And with age came a maturity, a strength, a wisdom that shifted them from survival into legacy. They became the backbone, the glue, the keepers of the family flame.
My grandmother was that woman. She wore so many hats with grace that it amazes me to this day. She was a teacher at the very school I attended—so I didn’t just hear about her impact; I witnessed it with my own eyes. She was a nurse at the VA hospital, tending to the wounded and the weary with hands that knew both gentleness and strength. And on top of that, she taught music—bringing life, rhythm, and beauty into spaces that needed it most.
Watching her was like watching a masterclass in becoming. She didn’t sit me down and give me lectures about how to be a woman, how to lead, or how to endure. She showed me. Every morning she got up and put on her shoes. Every job she worked, every student she taught, every patient she cared for, every hymn she sang—she was preaching a sermon without words.
She passed me the knowledge of God and the value of education. She taught me that prayer is not a last resort, but a lifeline. She showed me that books, learning, and wisdom are treasures you can’t lose once they’re inside you. And through her, I saw what resilience really looks like.
From my mother, grandfather, and even my father, I inherited the same spirit of work ethic. Everyone, in their own way, taught me that you don’t fold when life presses in. You stand. You push. You provide. That kind of grit became the fabric of my family.
Still, I can’t ignore the cycle. Mothers too young to mother. Grandmothers carrying the family. Children growing up fast. It could have broken us. But God has a way of planting seeds even in broken soil. He used the grandmothers to be the interruption. To declare without words: this cannot keep going on.
And here’s the beauty: when cycles finally start to break, it’s usually because someone dared to look at what’s been handed down and said, I want more for my children than what I had for myself. My grandmother wanted more. So did her grandmother. They may not have had all the tools, but they poured out what they did have—faith, wisdom, hard work, and love. And that became enough to keep the door open for the next generation to walk through.
I believe that’s why I write, why I lead, why I build. Because I carry the fire of women who refused to let the story end in defeat. Women who worked, prayed, and carried families even when their arms were tired. Women who showed me that you can be the first to start a cycle, but you can also be the one to stop it.
Cycles may try to repeat themselves, but so does God’s mercy. And His mercy rewrites stories.
So today, when I look back on the women who carried me—who carried us—I stand in awe. My grandmother was not just a woman of many hats; she was a woman of legacy. She didn’t just raise children. She raised strength. She raised faith. She raised vision. And that vision now lives in me.
"See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?" — Isaiah 43:19
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