Habit as a Lever, Part II: Learning to See Clearly
There is often a moment before everything begins to unravel, a quieter moment that is easy to miss. My attention is scattered by too many competing demands, and I feel the pressure of holding everything together at once. In that state, I lose the ability to see clearly. What presents itself as a child’s failure suddenly feels personal, urgent, and intolerable, though if I am honest, the unraveling usually began in me long before it reached him. When I am overwhelmed, my authority becomes reactive rather than rooted. Correction arrives more quickly than understanding, shaped less by wisdom than by fatigue.
This has been especially true with our two year old, who as the third of four children is often surrounded by movement, noise, and expectation. He feels keenly the need to be noticed and known. His curiosity, cleverness, and desire for connection often emerge in ways that look, at first glance, like defiance—he tests boundaries, stirs the pot, presses against what is asked of him. When I am already stretched thin, it is tempting to interpret these moments as willful resistance. Yet I am learning that what I am seeing is not defiance at all but weakness. Not ignorance, because he knows what is expected. Not rebellion, because his heart is not set against obedience. But a genuine weakness in doing what he ought—a weakness that deepens when I am not present enough to help him succeed.
When weakness is mistaken for defiance, something shifts. It’s subtle but deeply damaging. The child slowly moves from being a person to be formed into a problem to be solved. My words sharpen, my tone hardens, and discipline replaces formation. Instead of coming alongside him I push him down. Instead of calling him upward I attempt to force compliance. The behavior may stop for a moment, but something far more important is diminished—trust thins, authority grows brittle, and the relationship bears a small fracture that did not need to exist.
Yet there are other moments, quieter and far better ones, when I pause and choose to assume weakness rather than rebellion. In doing so everything changes. I look into his eyes, give the instruction slowly and clearly, ask him to tell it back, and remain near as he works through each small step of obedience. I offer presence rather than pressure. In those moments his whole face lifts, his shoulders straighten, and he experiences a real victory that he can feel in his body and spirit alike. Not merely the absence of correction but the satisfaction of having done what is right. He stands taller because he has been strengthened, and he knows himself to be capable, known, and worthy of trust. This is in itself a quiet but powerful form of formation.
I learned the language of ignorance, weakness, and defiance long before I became a mother, yet it is only through living daily with children that these distinctions have started to matter. Ignorance is often the easiest to overlook because it feels repetitive and unnecessary, as though we have already explained and corrected enough. Yet I lose nothing by assuming ignorance first and taking the time to address it carefully. Have I clearly named the habit, practiced it with him, and asked him to tell it back so I know he understands? Or have I simply repeated myself and expected obedience to appear without formation? If those steps have not been taken, then ignorance has not truly been addressed, no matter how many times I believe I have spoken.
Weakness, by contrast, reveals itself through repetition and faltering. It asks something far more demanding of the mother: patience, consistency, and quiet encouragement over time. I see this clearly now in my older children, who know what they ought to do and sometimes do it well, yet still stumble in moments that require sustained effort or self control. They show signs of conscience and self correction alongside their struggle. These are not moments for pressure or frustration, but for steady support, practice, and encouragement that strengthens the will rather than shaming it.
Defiance is different. It carries with it a heat and resistance that cannot be ignored and that often touches my own pride more quickly than I care to admit. I do not see it often in my home, though I have seen it clearly in students, and I know how swiftly it can unravel my composure if I am not careful. Yet even here, when I step away, ask the Holy Spirit for clarity, and return with a settled spirit, I am able to see the child as a person again and respond in a way that restores relationship while still honoring the authority I have been given.
One of the greatest freedoms I have found as a mother is learning to remove the burden of decision from moments charged with emotion. I discern patterns ahead of time and decide in advance what consequences will be when habits persist. Speaking with a child in a calm moment about what will happen if a pattern continues becomes part of both addressing ignorance and supporting weakness. It allows me to act with clarity rather than haste when failure occurs. When a consequence must be delayed, my children know it is because I am praying and because I refuse to act from anger. This in itself models the very self-mastery I am asking them to learn.
At the heart of all of this lies a truth that continues to humble and steady me: my habits matter just as much as my children’s do. Their growth will not outpace my own willingness to be formed. I cannot train attention if I live in constant distraction, nor can I cultivate patience if I refuse to practice it myself. And so I am learning to become what a mentor once called the bigger brain in the room. This means preparing my own response before the pain point arrives, anchoring myself in Scripture and breath prayers when overwhelm rises, and remembering that my child is not doing something to me, but growing slowly toward maturity under my care.
This is where I hope every mother pauses—not to analyze her child first, but to come quietly before the Lord and ask Him to soften her heart toward each of her children. It is an invitation to pray through their particular needs with humility, to journal honestly about what the Spirit is revealing, and to ask how He is calling her to come alongside them in this season. God has given us a high and noble calling, one that is demanding and often unseen, yet He does not leave us without strength for the work He assigns. He draws near, He is patient, He is kind. And as we learn to pause, to see clearly, and to love as we have been loved, we discover that real and lasting change is not only possible but already underway.
