Last week, my eldest child, Jake, packed up his soccer gear, a few unmentionable socks, and his shiny new laptop before heading off to college. The 18 years it took to reach this moment seemed to have flown by in a whirlwind. While I’m still grappling with the reality of sending my firstborn off into the world, witnessing his journey toward independence is something I’ve grown accustomed to. I cherished those sweet milestones, from his first steps and words to his initial ride on the school bus for kindergarten. Little did I know, the true challenge of creating distance between us would hit home when he learned to ride a bike.
Jake was not an enthusiastic cyclist, so I spent countless afternoons running beside him, gripping the back of his seat while he wailed, “Don’t let go!” in sheer panic. Eventually, I decided to let my sister, Lisa, take over during our beach vacation. With her experience teaching her three kids, she promised that the flat terrain would help. She was right, but Jake remained cautious.
The following week, when I took him out for a ride in our neighborhood, I realized we had taken a few steps back. After a round of tears, more running alongside him, and the dreaded repeat of “Don’t let go!” he finally found his groove. As he pedaled in circles around me in the cul-de-sac, shouting, “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” I stood there, hands on my hips, gasping for breath. Thank goodness he had it together, because I was running on empty. Still, pride swelled in me as I watched him conquer his fears.
The next day, we ventured out again. He gripped his handlebars tightly, determination etched on his face as we headed toward the cul-de-sac. After a half-hour of circling, he wanted to explore the neighborhood. I agreed, thrilled to see him taking a chance. But before I knew it, we found ourselves on a downhill side street. “Are you sure you want to go this way?” I asked, jogging beside him.
“Mom! I’ve got this!” he replied, annoyance creeping into his voice. With that, he crested the hill and plunged downwards. In an instant, he was out of reach. I gasped, watching as he soared down the slope, his tiny frame bent over the handlebars and his blue helmet looking almost oversized. The moment was picturesque until his front wheel began to wobble. I took a step forward, breaking into a run, but it was no use. I stopped, fists clutched to my chest, holding my breath.
And that’s when it dawned on me. This was parenting. Standing at the top of that hill, I realized this would define the next decade: watching my kids grow smaller in the distance and trusting—maybe in grace? In them? In what I’ve taught them? So, I watched him ride away, coming to terms with my helplessness and fear while trusting he could manage the bike on his own.
When he reached the bottom, he stopped, beaming, and raised his fist in triumph. I clapped, a smile plastered on my face, grateful he was too far to see me exhale in relief. Just when I thought I could relax, he wanted to do it all over again. That’s when I learned my second lesson: letting go is scary at first, but with time, it becomes easier.
Since then, there have been many more nerve-wracking steps toward independence: allowing him to stay home alone, walk to the pool across a busy road, ride with his teenage friends, and eventually drive. I’d like to think I’m getting better at this whole letting-go business, but life just keeps raising the stakes.
As he approached his high school graduation last spring, I felt the weight of the moment. When he grabbed the lunch his dad prepared and walked out the door during that final week, I suddenly saw him as too grown up for that. I envisioned him dining with friends in the college cafeteria or making Ramen noodles in his dorm—Dad’s lovingly packed lunches seemingly a distant memory.
Now, that moment has come. Just a week into college, the only message I’ve received from Jake reads, “College life,” accompanied by a snapshot of a microwaveable container of mac and cheese. Clearly, he’s not pining for Dad’s ham sandwiches.
I hope college will be his ultimate solo journey—one I won’t be able to run alongside him for. Like that day in our cul-de-sac, I’m feeling worn out from the emotional marathon of parenting, but that doesn’t lessen the bittersweet nature of his departure. I’ll miss decoding his half-asleep mumblings in the morning and sharing family dinners filled with laughter. I’ll worry about his academics and safety at parties. But I must trust him to navigate those wobbly moments. And when he does, I know we’ll celebrate together, him turning back with a triumphant fist in the air, while I cheer from my perch on the hill.
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Summary:
As our children grow and venture into independence, we learn to balance pride and fear. From the first bike ride to college life, every step away from us challenges our trust, yet teaches us the beauty of letting go.