Tomorrow marks the beginning of a new adventure. We’re headed to Chicago O’Hare International Airport to meet a remarkable young woman—our 16-year-old daughter, who has spent the summer in France with family in Lyon. I can already sense the change in her; she’ll be a little older when we embrace again.
As we lingered at the airport, stretching out our farewells, she hesitated. “Um, I have something for you. It’s not a big deal; just something I wrote. It’s a bit cheesy, I guess.” It was late June, and we stood close to the security checkpoint. Our eldest, feeling shy, rummaged through her bag to pull out two envelopes—one for her “dad and mom” and another for her brother. When her voice faltered, my tears began to flow.
Is she really ready for this?
I hugged her tightly and watched her stride confidently toward security, her passport and boarding pass in hand, poised for countless adventures in a culture she has long admired. Born in Germany, she has already lived in Dubai and London, and her passport reflects those experiences—a colorful testament to her journey. She walked away, and, astonishingly, didn’t glance back. Then, in an instant, the crowd engulfed her, and she was gone from sight.
Traveling wasn’t new for her; traveling solo was. Would she feel isolated? Panic? I wouldn’t be there to comfort her.
When she was just 8 years old, I knew without a doubt that she wasn’t ready for certain realities. Neither was I. After a joyful moment with her new pogo stick, she fell hard on the pavement, blood filling her mouth. Her face swelled, turning a painful shade of purple. I remember racing to the emergency room, her horrified little face forever etched in my mind.
“It’s not fair,” she whimpered through her bloodied lips as I cradled her in the backseat, frantically calling a dentist friend for help. Her front tooth was severed, and I had managed to find the half she had lost, stowing it in my pocket just in case.
At the ER, the receptionist’s concern echoed in my ears, “But is she going to be okay?” I sat there, pale and sagging in my chair, the image of my daughter’s injured smile haunting me. The doctor brought up the risk of head injuries, and I felt a wave of helplessness wash over me.
That fall taught both of us a harsh lesson. Life can change in an instant, and it doesn’t ask for permission to deliver painful truths. Her love for pogo sticks faded, and she cautiously returned to her bike and inline skates. I should have been celebrating her newfound confidence, but as I waved goodbye to her petite figure riding off toward high school, my heart ached.
“Be careful!” I called after her.
Am I truly ready for this?
The sensation of losing control has challenged every aspect of motherhood. We do everything we can to shield our children from harm, from strapping them into car seats to installing parental controls online. I’ve wished to protect my daughter from life’s unfairness for as long as I can remember.
She’s still so young.
But then came her freshman year, when tragedy struck. A classmate she admired took his own life, and I felt the weight of that sorrow. I wished I could absorb the heaviness of her grief, but I could only watch as she navigated this new, painful reality. I wanted to be the superhero mom, like Elastigirl from The Incredibles, swooping in to save her from heartache. But I couldn’t.
Over the years, that illusion of control has slowly crumbled, yet it still taunts me from time to time.
Tomorrow, a self-sufficient young woman will return home. I know she packed her beloved Big Ears, the ragged stuffed rabbit from her childhood—her constant in this unpredictable world. Unlike life, Big Ears offers a comforting consistency.
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In summary, as we prepare to welcome our daughter back from her adventures, I’m reminded of the bittersweet nature of parenting—balancing the joy of watching her grow with the ache of letting go.