I never wanted to have a child.
I wasn’t the girl who played house with dolls or pictured a big wedding. I didn’t dream of raising a family. I just wanted to live—and somewhere deep down, I believed a baby would interrupt that freedom. I watched friends become mothers and admired how they adjusted, how they made space in their lives for something so big. But I couldn’t see it for myself. This world felt too broken to bring a child into. Too heavy.
I wouldn’t even babysit for my friends. I didn’t think I had the patience to be around children, especially ones that didn’t belong to me. And then, life laughed.
During a routine doctor’s visit, I heard the words that would change everything:
“Congratulations. You’re pregnant.”
I was frozen. Scared. Disbelieving. And eventually—accepting.
I didn’t know what I was doing, but I did know what I didn’t want to repeat. I promised myself I would skip the parts of my own childhood that left cracks in the foundation. I wanted to give my child what I hadn’t received: freedom without fear, structure without suffocation, love without conditions.
So I got to work.
I researched the best schools, handpicked the music that would shape his soul, curated books I hoped would stretch his imagination, and exposed him to multiple languages. I built his world with intention.
And for years, it worked. He became the smartest child in every room. People noticed. They complimented his vocabulary, his wit, and his love of learning. I was proud that he was hungry for knowledge and brave in his curiosity.
I thought it would last forever.
But then—something shifted.
He stopped reading.
Stopped asking questions.
Stopped caring about standing out.
It was like someone slowly turned down his volume—until he wasn’t trying to be the best anymore, just trying to blend in. Not with the gifted kids, but with the most distracted ones. The ones satisfied with mediocrity.
And this is the part of parenting nobody talks about.
The moment when your child loses the very thing that made them feel limitless—and you have no idea how to get it back.
易 The Dreams I’ve Held With Him
When he was little, he wanted to be a brain surgeon. So I downloaded diagrams of the human brain, studied anatomy and physiology with him, and looked for science experiments that stretched his understanding. I helped him think beyond what was in front of him and imagine what was possible.
Then his dream changed—he wanted to design video game characters and storyboards. So I pivoted. I enrolled him in coding camps, found YouTube creators teaching digital design, and registered him for a high school with built-in programs in game design and technology. I bought art programs and helped him develop his characters. I created space for his creativity, even when he seemed like he just wanted to be left alone.
When he said he wanted to swim, I encouraged him to float and excel. He joined swim teams, pushed his limits, and reached new levels. What he doesn’t know yet is that once he’s old enough, I plan to support him in getting certified in CPR, AED, and as a lifeguard—so he always has options.
I’m also guiding him to finish his Spanish and Arabic studies so he can graduate with a seal of biliteracy and a license to translate. All of this—every push, every investment—is about giving him tools he can use before he even leaves high school.
Not because I want him to be everything.
But because I want him to know that he can be anything.
What I Want for Him
I don’t want perfection. I want possibility.
I want him to have options. Not just to survive, but to thrive. I want him to have a skillset that feeds him—mentally, spiritually, emotionally, financially. I want him to be able to build something of his own. To walk into rooms and not shrink. To trust his voice and his power.
I want him to know what freedom looks like—the kind that comes with discipline and dreams.
And I know how the world treats smart Black boys who get tired and fall behind.
I’ve seen how quick it is to forget them. To punish them. To put them in boxes they were never meant for.
I want to keep him out of those boxes.
But he has to want it, too.
Until Then, I’ll Be the Fire
I can’t force his ambition to come back.
But until it does, I will be the ambition.
I’ll be the structure. I’ll be the mirror. I’ll be the reason he keeps showing up—because I refuse to stop showing up for him.
He may not understand it now, but every gift he has is a seed. And if he waters them, he will always have a way to feed himself and create his own future.
What I’m Doing Now
Parenting a high schooler is different. It’s strategic. It’s soft and firm all at once. Here are the steps I’m taking to support him while he figures it out:
Rebuilding routines
We’re getting back to basics: sleep, reading, reflection. One change at a time.Talking, not lecturing
I’m asking more questions. Listening more. Showing up without judgment—but never without expectations.Reconnecting him with purpose
Whether it’s gaming, tech, or storytelling—whatever sparks even a flicker—I’m following that trail with him.Modeling discipline
I’m letting him see my drive. My growth. My hustle. Because kids may ignore what we say, but they imitate what we live.Letting go of perfection
I remind myself daily: it’s progress over pressure. This is a journey, not a straight line.
Final Thoughts
I may not have dreamed of becoming a mother. But now?
Now I dream for him.
And until he remembers who he is, I’ll keep reminding him. I’ll keep building, showing, guiding—even if he rolls his eyes at me in the moment. Because I know what’s at stake. And I know what he’s capable of.
爵Reflection Question for Readers:
What’s one gift or dream your child once had that you still believe in—maybe even more than they do right now? And how are you holding the light for them until they’re ready to carry it themselves?