Pastor daughter

My parents always loved telling the story of how they met. They started out as friends for over five years before anything romantic ever blossomed between them. Listening to them talk about those early days always brought a smile to my face.

It's funny to look back at old photographs of my mother. Before she became who she is today, she was just an ordinary young woman enjoying her youth. I'd see pictures of her in cute tops and skirts-nothing wild, but definitely not reaching her knees either-just out partying and living life. My father's past is a bit more of a mystery to me, but one thing has always been clear: he was an exceptionally hard worker, just like my mom. Before their paths crossed, she juggled several different jobs to get by.

Like many families in our community, both of my parents were born in Africa and later made the life-changing decision to relocate to Europe in search of better opportunities. How exactly they ended up on the path to full-time ministry is a long story, but it all really traces back to a pivotal moment before I was even born.

When my mother was pregnant with my older sister, the doctors dropped a devastating bomb: they claimed the baby would be born with severe disabilities. Since there was no history of disability on either side of the family, my parents refused to accept that diagnosis. At the time, my mother wasn't religious-back in Africa, faith wasn't really a part of her life. But faced with that crisis, my parents chose to place their absolute trust in God.

Despite repeated warnings from doctors who strongly advised her to terminate the pregnancy, insisting she wouldn't be able to handle the burden, my mother held her ground. She and my dad prayed relentlessly, holding onto the belief that if God said no, then the diagnosis wouldn't stand. They chose life, and it turned out to be the best decision they ever made. God's power proved greater than any medical prognosis: my sister was born completely healthy, leaving the doctors speechless.

Not long after, I entered the picture. My parents always reminded me of how "special" I looked at birth-mainly because my skin was unbelievably fair, almost completely white, which initially left the doctor thoroughly confused. (Of course, as I grew older, I realized it's completely normal for Black newborns to lack melanin at first before their natural skin tone develops). They cherished me deeply, always buying the best milk and ensuring I had everything I needed.

My memories from those early years are a bit hazy. I just remember church being the center of our universe. We attended a vibrant Pentecostal church, much like most African families around us. In our church, everyone was expected to contribute by joining a specific department-whether it was serving on the ushering team or singing in the choir. Both my parents threw themselves into serving until one day, they received the official call to become pastors. From that moment on, our lives transformed completely.

During my earliest years, the weight of expectations hadn't hit me yet. Sure, as I grew a bit older, members of the congregation began looking up to me as the pastors' daughter, expecting me to set an example. But for the most part, my parents still allowed me to just be a kid. I played with slime, ran around, made noise, and made friends easily.

Eventually, my mother decided it was time for me to join the choir. My older sister used to cry every time she had to stand on stage holding a microphone in front of the congregation. I, on the other hand, was thrilled.

I still remember leading my very first praise session. In our church, we separate music into two categories: praise and worship. Praise songs are upbeat and energetic, driven by loud drums and guitars-it's the time where everyone gets up to dance, clap, and celebrate God's goodness. Worship, on the other hand, is deep and reflective; it's the moment where the room falls quiet, people fall to their knees, and tears flow as we pour our hearts out to God.

That first praise session I led was a huge success. I poured every ounce of my energy into it, and seeing the joy on everyone's faces filled me with pride. Those early years were simple and happy. I didn't mind being the "good girl" my parents wanted me to be.

I was a naturally shy kid, so my only real struggles back then stemmed from my own awkwardness or embarrassment. But as childhood faded, things took a sharp turn. Everything began to shift when I entered middle school-and by my final year, I faced the hardest blow of my life, coming face-to-face with depression for the very first time.