–Rogue Grace- Makeshift Masterpiece
I love my kids more than anything in this world.
Which is exactly why I don’t want them to believe everything I say without question.
That might sound backwards. Counterintuitive. Even a little messed up.
But here’s the thing: I don’t want to raise kids who listen to me because they’ve been trained to obey.
I want to raise kids who can pause… think… question… and choose what makes sense to them. Even when the voice giving the command is mine.
Because I’m still learning — and unlearning — too.
I’m not immune to fear-based parenting. I don’t always speak from healed places. Sometimes I parent from the exhaustion in my bones or the weight I didn’t realize I was still carrying.
Sometimes my tone is sharp because my patience is thin.
Sometimes I’m wrong — not just in hindsight, but right in the moment.
And I need them to know that.
Not because I want to lose their trust. But because I want them to build their own.
I don’t want obedience. I want discernment.
I want my kids to know how to evaluate what they’re told — especially when the person telling them something is powerful, persuasive, or familiar.
That starts with me.
Because if they never learn to challenge my voice — the one that also sings them to sleep and sneaks chocolate into their lunchboxes —
how will they ever feel safe challenging the voices that don’t love them at all?
I know what it’s like to question everything — not out of defiance, but out of deep intent.
I’ve always needed to understand the why, to pull at the threads until they either fray or hold.
That’s not aggression — it’s clarity-seeking.
It’s how I move through the world.
And I want my kids to know that kind of questioning isn’t dangerous.
It’s a form of faith. A form of care. A refusal to settle for something that doesn’t sit right in your soul.
Because part of questioning is learning how to listen —
to hear the answer, and decide whether it needs to be left… or integrated.
Everyone deserves a space to find their voice.
To test it out. To raise it when needed.
To negotiate. To say no to what doesn’t feel right — even when it’s handed to them in a gentle tone or a familiar rhythm.
And I want that space to start at home.
I want my kids to examine why they think the way they do.
To recognize the questions rising in them — and notice the answers that don’t sit right.
To know that confusion isn’t failure — it’s faithfulness in motion.
I want them to understand that some thoughts, some loops, some shifts in mood — they may not have chosen those things. They may have inherited them.
From me. From DNA. From lived proximity to my rough days and raw edges.
And the more they learn to navigate what they carry by default…
the more they’ll be able to steer their future on purpose.
I want them to know the difference between a reaction and a response — that one is impulse and the other is intention.
That consequences aren’t always punishments. Sometimes the result of an action is something awesome.
That agency isn’t about being perfect — it’s about knowing what you’re doing and why you’re doing it.
And I want them to know this too:
They can put weight on my shoulders.
Even the weight of the places where I didn’t hold up when they needed me to.
They can name it. They can bring it to me.
And I’ll hold it with them — not with shame, but with presence.
That’s not a burden. That’s part of the work.
That’s grace with its sleeves rolled up.
Because if grace means anything,
it has to mean there’s room to grow while you’re already loved.
Room to fumble and still be seen.
Room to question — and still belong.
That’s the kind of grace I want to model.
Not the kind that demands blind trust,
but the kind that can hold the weight of real relationship.
I am accountable to my kids. That doesn’t mean I give up authority — it means I honor it. I treat it like something sacred enough to question. I don’t get to hide behind “because I said so” when I’ve messed up.
I say I’m sorry. I name my mistakes. I circle back.
Because love that doesn’t leave room for accountability isn’t love. It’s control.
So no, I don’t want my kids to trust me all the time.
I want them to trust themselves.
To listen to their instincts, even when the voice they’re questioning is mine.
To speak up — especially when it’s hard.
To examine their own thinking. To name what’s theirs, and what’s inherited.
To know the difference between reaction and wisdom — and to choose the latter when it matters.
To practice critical thinking in the safest space I can give them, so they’re strong enough to use it in a world that won’t always be safe.
I don’t need them to agree with me.
I need them to intentionally be them.
