I used to think parenting was mostly about giving. About pouring out. About teaching little hands how to tie shoes and say prayers, how to be kind, how to make their bed and stand up for what’s right. And maybe in the early days, it was. I was the one with the night feedings and the scraped knees and the whispered prayers over sleeping heads. I was the one figuring it out, sometimes by grace and sometimes by grit.

But somewhere along the way, the script flipped.

They started teaching me.

I don’t mean with lectures or advice—I mean with their living. With their becoming. With the way they navigated the world with open hands and big feelings, how they forgave quickly and questioned deeply, how they stretched me in ways I didn’t know I needed to be stretched. And what I’ve come to realize is this: I may have raised them, but they raised something in me too.

From Gavin, my firstborn, I’ve learned the quiet strength of steadfast love. Born in the stillness of a snowstorm, he came into my life when I was barely more than a child myself. I didn’t feel ready. I was scared. But that boy—he never asked me to be perfect. He just needed me to show up. And I did. Again and again. Watching him now, so deeply devoted to his wife and her culture, singing love songs in her native tongue, I see the kind of man who builds bridges. He’s not flashy, but he is steady. And he reminds me that faithfulness often speaks in a whisper.

From Spencer, my wildflower, I’ve learned to feel more. He came into the world on a summer breeze and brought with him a sensitivity that ran deep from the start. His heart has always lived close to the surface. He used big words for big feelings—even when he didn’t quite get them right—and he taught me not to rush past emotion but to sit with it. To honor it. Now, as I watch him co-parent with tenderness and quiet strength, I see a man being shaped in real time. It humbles me to witness.

From Belle, the daughter I didn’t birth but fiercely love, I’ve learned that love doesn’t have to be loud to be real. She didn’t come to me with open arms. She came guarded, protective of the father she adored, unsure of what to make of me. And truthfully, I wasn’t sure either. But slowly—so slowly—we grew. In glances and in side-by-side moments without words. She let me be her “other” and I learned that chosen love can be just as sacred as the kind that shares DNA. Sometimes, even more.

From Maddox, my winter baby, I’ve learned to be honest with myself. He sees through things, asks hard questions, and doesn’t accept surface-level answers. He pushes me toward authenticity, toward truth. His gaze holds a depth that reminds me of all I still don’t know—and he’s not afraid to call it out. He challenges me to be real, not just right. To listen more than I speak. To keep growing, even in seasons that feel settled.

These children of mine—each one a chapter in my story, each one a mirror held to parts of myself I would’ve otherwise missed.

They’ve shown me grace when I didn’t deserve it. They’ve offered forgiveness I didn’t always earn. They’ve stretched my heart in places I thought were long sealed up. And they’ve drawn me closer to God—not in loud declarations, but in the quiet ways they’ve lived out truth, tested faith, and returned to love over and over again.

So, no—I haven’t just raised them.

They’ve raised me too.

In patience.

In humility.

In resilience.

In grace.

And I’m still learning.