The lessons I once resisted, and the quiet ways they shaped who I became
There was a time in my childhood when I was absolutely convinced that my parents were not my real parents.
In fact, I had already formed a quiet theory: surely , I was adopted! It was the only logical explanation for how I felt.
Looking back now, it sounds almost amusing, but at the time it felt completely real. In my mind, loving parents did not make their children work that hard.
I grew up in Ghana, in a household where children were expected to take part in the daily life of the home. It did not matter that there were nannies, a gardener, or a driver. My parents believed their children should grow up knowing how to take care of themselves and their environment.
So it was normal for us to wake up early and do chores before school. Some mornings I would wash the car. Other times I would sweep the compound or scrub the gutters, often with tears quietly running down my face.
At that age, I did not see nurturing. I saw unfairness.
So I created my own explanation.
These people were not my parents.
***
One of the biggest battles during that phase of my life revolved around something quite simple. My school uniform.
Anyone who went to school in Ghana knows that uniforms are part of everyday life. Whether public or private school, everyone wore one.
At Achimota School, one of Ghana’s well-known schools where discipline and responsibility were woven into everyday life, not just the classroom, the girls wore a deep emerald-green pinafore, its tiny white floral patterns so closely woven that, from afar, it looked like a soft, speckled memory of green and white.
This was the uniform I wore, day after day.
Now, even toddlers wore uniforms, so my parents and grandmother never believed that wearing one automatically meant a child should be responsible for washing it. But she believed that from around the age of ten, children should begin learning how to care for themselves and their belongings.
It was about building accountability.
Learning to take responsibility for the small, everyday things.
The problem was that I simply refused to cooperate.
After school, I loved playing football and “ampe”. The field was dusty, not grassy. By the time I got home, my uniform would be covered in dirt and my white sneakers would be completely brown.
I had several uniforms, and weekends were meant for washing them, but sometimes I simply forgot, or pretended to, hoping someone else would take care of it.
So gradually, they would all be used up. When it was time to go to school, I would sometimes find myself reaching for a fresh uniform from the reserve. But that small escape always came at a cost, as sooner or later I would be confronted with a growing heap of uniforms that made the task of washing them feel almost Herculean.
Naturally, this frustrated everyone.
***
My grandmother did not live with us, but whenever she came to visit, it was always a joyful moment.
Usually, when the driver brought us home from school, he would honk at the gate to be opened. If she was visiting, she would come out onto the porch, waiting for us. And the moment we stepped out of the car and saw her, we would run toward her, because we knew she might have brought some presents for us.
Those were moments of pure excitement.
But one afternoon unfolded differently.
Our adorable driver, Mr. Bentil, dropped my sister and me right at the gate that day. He had somewhere he needed to rush off to, so instead of driving up the long driveway, we got down and began walking toward the house.
As I walked slowly up the driveway, I saw her standing on the porch. She was smiling. She beckoned to me, and just like always, she had her hands behind her back. Immediately, my heart filled with excitement. In the mind of a child, that could only mean one thing.
She had goodies.
I ran toward her happily, but I had completely forgotten something. I had a pile of unwashed school uniforms and that afternoon, I had gone to play football after school. My uniform was dusty and my sneakers were far from white.
When I reached her, she brought her hands forward. Instead of sweets, she looked at me with a seriousness that made me pause. She took my hand gently but firmly and told me that we needed to have an important conversation about responsibility.
Like many children growing up in that time and context, discipline often came through firm correction and high expectations, even though today I understand that those lessons can be taught in gentler ways too.
What stayed with me, however, was not that moment. It was what came after.
A few hours later, when the house had grown quiet, I heard singing from the courtyard. Curious, I stepped outside. There she was. She had taken my dirty uniform and my shoes, and she was washing them herself. She asked me to sit beside her. And then, gently, she spoke.
“You are growing into a young lady,” she said. “You must learn to take care of yourself.”
“A child does not always understand the love inside responsibility.”
She was concerned because, in a few years, I would be in high school, where most students lived in boarding houses and were expected to take care of themselves. It was not anger that guided her that day. It was love expressed through preparation. She spoke about responsibility, about caring for what you have, and about preparing for life in ways I could not yet understand. At the time, I listened only halfway. The other half of my mind was still convinced that I had been adopted and was quietly planning my escape.
***
Many years later, in 2025, I found myself in conversation with a colleague from Kenya. What began as a casual exchange about childhood slowly unfolded into something much deeper.
We spoke about chores, expectations, and the ways we were mothered. We reflected on how, as adults, we have carried forward the nurturing, life-shaping principles we were raised with, while also learning to adapt the parts we felt could have been done differently. We spoke about washing clothes by hand, about sweeping compounds that felt far too big for our small hands, and about something else that felt so ordinary then, yet so meaningful now, keeping gardens and tending to small farms at home.
We were talking about how strict our parents had seemed at the time, how in our young minds everything felt excessive, unnecessary, and unfair.
And then, almost at the same time, we both blurted it out.
“I planned to run away.”
We stopped, looked at each other, and then, almost in disbelief, we both began to laugh. Not the light kind of laughter, but the kind that comes from recognition, from suddenly seeing yourself in someone else’s story.
Because it was not just that we had both thought about running away.
It was why.
We had each been convinced, in our own childhood logic, that our parents could not possibly be our real parents, that somewhere out there, there must be another home, another family, one that would understand us better, one where life would be easier.
She spoke about how she had imagined going to Nairobi, finding her way, starting over, certain that she would somehow be better off. And as she spoke, I could see it clearly. Another colleague from Kampala joined in the laughter. She had planned to run away as a child convinced her mom was not hers.
Because I too had made plans. Quiet, serious plans. I had thought about where I would go, how I would leave, how I would survive. I had believed, with complete certainty, that somewhere out there was a better life, one without rules, without chores, without what I then saw as constant demands.
In those moments, we were not playing. We were convinced.
Convinced that we were misunderstood.
Convinced that we were being treated unfairly.
Convinced that escape would solve everything.
And yet there we were, years later, one from Accra, one from Nairobi, another from Kampala, sitting in a completely different part of the world, laughing at the same childhood certainty.
It was almost surreal.
Three young girls, raised in different countries, different homes, and different cultures, and yet shaped by such similar thoughts. In that moment, something quietly profound became clear: childhood, in all its innocence and certainty, carries truths that feel remarkably familiar, no matter where in the world we begin.
***
Looking back now, I understand something I could not see then.
What felt like hardship was, in many ways, preparation. Those small expectations built something in us.
They built tenacity. They built accountability. They built a kind of quiet agility, the ability to adapt, to manage, to figure things out wherever life places you.
And they nurtured a deep, often unspoken, cultural pride, the understanding that our upbringing had given us tools we would carry far beyond home.
Today, living away from that familiar environment, I see how those lessons shaped me. They did not take away my childhood. They strengthened my adulthood.
My grandmother often repeated a saying in our local language, one that stayed with me long after childhood.
Loosely translated, it meant this: being a child is not always easy, because children do not always understand what the adults who truly love them, care for their wellbeing, and nurture them are trying to prepare them for.
At the time, those words meant very little to me. Today, they mean everything.
And yet, I have also come to understand that being a child is not something to outgrow too quickly. Children must be heard. They must be allowed to ask questions, to feel, to be curious, and to be children.
I think back to that afternoon, when she sat with me, washing my uniform. I asked questions, still trying to make sense of it all, and she answered with patience, showing me small tips, guiding me through it. And then, almost without thinking, I joined her. I picked up one of the uniforms and began to wash.
The lesson was not only in what she said, but in how she chose to stay, to guide, and to nurture.
Perhaps this is what it means to grow, to move from understanding only as a child to seeing more clearly with time.
***
Looking back, I do not remember the discipline as much as I remember the care, the nurturing, and the intention behind the lessons.
And now, whenever I find myself facing something unfamiliar, uncomfortable, or difficult, I think about that little girl. The one who cried while doing chores, who believed life was unfair, who thought she did not belong.
She reminds me that growth often begins in discomfort, and that resistance is not always a sign that something is wrong. Sometimes, it is simply the first response to change.
She did not yet understand. But she was learning.
She reminds me that growth often begins in discomfort, and that resistance is not always a sign that something is wrong. Sometimes, it is simply our first response to change.
I have carried that lesson into my professional life too. In the corporate world, change often arrives in ways that feel uncertain, inconvenient, or unsettling. Yet some of the most important growth happens when we learn to stay open, adapt, and trust that discomfort can be part of becoming more capable, more resilient, and more ready for what comes next.
That is one of the quiet truths about growth. The things we resist most are sometimes the very things shaping us. And in time, if we allow it, understanding arrives softly, bringing with it strength, perspective, and a gentler view of what once felt hard.
***
You may have a moment like this too, something you once resisted and now understand differently. If so, I would truly love to hear your story.
Adwoa Okorewaa : Wellspring of A Matriach 