The other day, my son reminded me that I haven’t penned a post in almost a year. Not due to a lack of material, mind you; quite the opposite. A lot has happened worth sharing.
For instance, I could have recounted the time I accidentally sliced part of my thumb while using a mandoline slicer. After the incident, I picked up the severed piece, reattached it, wrapped it up with a paper towel, and pondered whether I needed medical help. Spoiler alert: I did, and it took weeks to heal. Only a true Italian would risk a finger for the sake of perfectly sliced eggplant.
Then there’s the incident right after what I now call “The Mandoline Fiasco,” when I received a skin cancer diagnosis on my head. While I prefer to keep my writing light-hearted, I struggled to find the humor in that situation. I’m doing just fine now, by the way—take that, squamous cell carcinoma.
Another topic ripe for writing: my eldest child graduated high school. A significant milestone, right? She got accepted to her dream school, the University of Washington, and our families gathered to celebrate her graduation. I think I might have shed a few tears during the ceremony, though I can’t recall specifics.
This summer, she worked hard to save money, and we discussed what she would need for college. We bought her new bedding and storage drawers for her dorm. I was fine. We even ordered her textbooks online and shipped them to her dorm. Still fine.
Then came yesterday, when we packed the car and took the ferry to Seattle. We moved her into a bright, new dorm, had dinner with her roommate and her lovely family, and it should have been a smooth transition. But when I hugged my daughter goodbye, watching her walk away, it felt like I was watching her step out of her childhood and into a vast, uncertain world. And suddenly, I was not fine. So here I am, writing.
It’s as if I’ve been struck by an emotional hurricane. I knew I’d feel sadness when she left; after 18 years of daily life together, it’s impossible not to miss them. Thankfully, my daughter isn’t a pain—perhaps that makes it even harder.
The worry is overwhelming. Until now, I always knew where she was, what time she went to bed, and what she ate. Now, she’s in a bustling city, and I have no idea if she’s getting enough sleep or if she remembered to grab a jacket. The uncertainty is… unsettling.
Alongside worry comes guilt. I’m second-guessing my parenting choices. Did I prepare her for the “real” world adequately? Did I scare her too much or not enough? Will she remember to keep pepper spray in her backpack? Does she know how to mail a package? Did I ever tell her the post office closes at 5:30?
I didn’t anticipate feeling anger. I’m frustrated with the world for not preparing me for this moment. Everyone has countless pieces of unsolicited advice for the early years of parenting—those sleepless nights, toddler tantrums, and adolescent pressures. But when it comes to a child leaving for college, the response is typically, “Oh, how exciting!” and then it’s over. No one ever warned me that this transition is the hardest milestone of all. Not one person said, “Oh, your child is going off to college? I’m so sorry; that’s tough for you.”
Of course, I’m thrilled for her and excited about her future. I don’t want her to stay home forever, but that doesn’t lessen the fact that it’s really hard for me right now. So I’m sharing this with you, parents of younger kids, because no one told me—this part truly sucks. You’re welcome.
People say, “Oh, you’re lucky she’ll only be an hour away,” which comforted me until yesterday. I quickly realized that it doesn’t matter if she’s an hour or five hours away; the fact remains, she’s not in her room. The house feels far too quiet.
I keep replaying the image of my little girl walking toward her dorm, as I fight back tears, wishing I could shout, “Wait! Turn around! I’m not done yet. I need a bit more time… just a little more time!” But my time has run out, and all I can do is hope I used it wisely.
Despite my heavy heart and muddled emotions, I know one thing for certain: while I may need a little more time, she does not. She’s strong, intelligent, beautiful, and ready. The world is hers now. Please treat her kindly.
For additional insights on parenting and preparing for milestones like this, check out American Pregnancy for excellent resources.