As we approach the final first day of my child’s high school journey, I can’t help but feel a mix of nostalgia and excitement. Yes, I use the term “childhood” loosely—after all, anyone who has observed a high school hallway knows these are not the same little kids who once lined up in perfect rows, making the “SH!” symbol with their fingers. Now, it’s a bustling environment with a principal, rules, detentions, and bells ringing overhead. The structure is still there, but it’s a far cry from the freedom that awaits him in college. Am I really ready for his senior year? For the last dance, final sports events, the senior breakfast, awards ceremonies, and that moment when he walks across the stage in a cap and gown? Is he ready?
I’m beginning to think he is, both mentally and physically, and it’s an exhilarating and terrifying realization all at once. I believe we have navigated through the tough terrain of puberty. The awkward phase has given way to a young man who speaks confidently in public, remembers to shower and shave, and exhibits a level of independence I never anticipated. This summer, he’ll even land his first paying job! The mood swings have diminished, and conversations have shifted from giggles about body parts to thoughtful discussions on whether our nation is ready for a female president. So, the time has come for me to gradually start the process of letting go, preparing for that moment in just over a year when he graduates. Gulp.
Among the many challenging phases of parenting—from teething to sleepless nights, from toddler tantrums to the tumult of teenage years—none seem as daunting as this stage of letting go. Just saying “letting go” sends a shiver down my spine. Some days, I still look past his deep voice and scruffy chin and see the little boy who once pushed Thomas the Tank Engine along a track. Do I truly have to send him out into the big, wide world? Yes. I do. My own mother did the same, leaving me at college when I was just 17. Back then, there were no cell phones, no emails, and no texts—just one payphone at the end of the hall. I still remember the awkwardness of dialing home collect. I can hardly fathom how she left me on those dorm steps and drove away. But she did, and soon, I will too.
Parents from my generation, and even those a bit younger, have often embraced helicopter parenting. From the moment our babies entered the world, we clutched them tightly and haven’t loosened our grip since. We were the pioneers of attachment parenting, sporting our babies in simple navy Baby Bjorns long before baby-wearing became a trend. We advocated for extended breastfeeding, co-sleeping, and were among the first to push for organic baby food. Remember the generation of six-month-olds glued to Baby Einstein? That was us.
We walked our children to preschool, stayed close at the classroom door, and have never missed a game, recital, or school event. We’ve rocked, snuggled, and hovered, ensuring they were the most protected kids in history. It was our parental mission to safeguard, support, and always be present. Now, here I am, expected to drop him off at college and drive away. Deep breath. Yes, that is exactly what I must do, and I need to approach it with earnestness, faith, and grace.
Each spring, a mother dove builds her nest on my front porch, and I’m captivated by her dedication. She and her mate take turns watching over their hatchlings, displaying unwavering instinct and strength. But one day, she leaves for just a few minutes to gather food. Gradually, her absences grow longer, until eventually, the nest is empty. The young birds hesitate, peering over the edge of the nest, wondering if they’re ready to take flight. They will fly, and she knows it.
In just over a year, I hope to embody the same courage as that mother dove when I leave my first little hatchling on the dorm steps. This senior year will be filled with small, measured moments of letting go, which I trust will build my confidence, strengthen my faith, and remind me that pushing him out of the nest doesn’t mean I won’t be there in spirit. It simply means I’ve done enough to prepare him for his own journey, and that’s something to be proud of, not mournful over. And I will be proud. Earnestly, faithfully, and gracefully, I will.
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Summary
As the end of my child’s junior year approaches, I reflect on the bittersweet experience of letting go. With each passing moment, I recognize my son is growing into a confident young man, making it imperative for me to embrace the process of release. Through gradual steps, I aim to prepare myself for the inevitable day when he leaves for college, much like a mother dove who nurtures her hatchlings before they spread their wings. It’s a journey filled with pride, faith, and the realization that letting go is a necessary part of growth.