The final first day of childhood school has arrived. I use the term “childhood” loosely, as anyone who has recently navigated the corridors of high school knows that these are not small children walking in an orderly fashion, fingers raised in the iconic “SH!” gesture. Yet, it remains a structured environment, complete with rules, a principal, detentions, bells, and hall passes—far from the freedom that awaits him in college. Am I prepared for his senior year? For the last school dance, the final sports team, the closing athletic banquet, senior breakfast, awards ceremonies, and ultimately, the cap and gown? Is he?
Surprisingly, I’m beginning to think he is ready, both mentally and physically, which is exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. I believe we have weathered the most tumultuous storms of puberty. The awkwardness has transformed into a confident young man who speaks comfortably in front of others, who no longer needs reminders to shower or shave, and who is exhibiting an independent spirit I never anticipated. This summer, he’ll embark on his first job, marking a real step into adulthood. The dramatic mood swings are rare, replaced by thoughtful discussions on topics like the readiness of our country for a female president. It’s clear that it’s time for me to start the process of letting go, little by little, so that when he graduates in a year, I don’t crumble into tears on the sidelines. Just thinking about it sends a shiver down my spine.
Out of all the challenging parenting stages—teething, sleepless nights, toddler tantrums, and teenage angst—none will be as demanding as this phase of letting go. Just uttering the words sends chills through me. Some days, I still see the little boy who once pushed a toy train along the tracks, despite the deep voice and scruffy chin before me. Do I really have to send him into the vast, unpredictable world? Yes, I do. My mother did the same when she left me at college at 17. Back then, there were no cell phones, emails, or texts—just a single payphone at the end of the hall. I still remember the anxiety of dialing home collect. How my mom managed to leave me there is beyond comprehension, but she did, and soon, I will too.
My generation and those slightly younger have been steeped in the helicopter parenting mentality. From the moment our children entered this world, we clung to them tightly, never letting go. We were the pioneers of attachment parenting, sporting our infants in plain navy Baby Bjorns long before baby-wearing became mainstream. We embraced extended breastfeeding, co-sleeping, and were the first to insist on organic baby food. We were also the first generation to see infants glued to Baby Einstein.
We participated in cooperative preschools, walked our five-year-olds to the classroom door, and were there to pick them up without fail. We’ve attended every game, lesson, play, recital, and school event. Our children have likely been the most protected and guarded in history. It seemed our mission was to shield, encourage, and always be present. And now, in just over a year, I must simply drop him off at the dorm steps and drive away? Deep breath. Yes, that is precisely what I need to do, and I must do it with genuine faith and grace.
Every spring for the past few years, a mother dove has chosen my front porch to build her nest. I watch her and her mate diligently take turns guarding their young, undeterred by weather conditions. Their instincts and strength keep them vigilant, never leaving the nest unattended… until one day, she does. She steps away briefly to gather food, then gradually for longer stretches. Hours turn into a day. The hatchlings peer over the edge of the nest, wondering if they are ready to take flight. I can imagine them asking, “Is mom coming back? Should we go? Are we ready? Can we fly?”
They will. She knows they will. Their instinct and strength will guide them.
A few days later, I check the nest and find it empty. They have taken flight, just as she knew they would. This mother dove has let go earnestly, faithfully, and gracefully.
As I prepare for my own letting-go moment in just over a year, I can only hope to embody the same courage as that mother dove while leaving my first little hatchling at the dorm. I will embrace small, intentional moments of letting go throughout his senior year, which I hope will build my confidence and nurture my faith. Pushing him out of the nest doesn’t mean I have to be there to soar alongside him; it signifies that I have equipped him to fly independently. And truly, that is something to be proud of. I will embrace this transition with pride and not sorrow. Earnestly, faithfully, and gracefully, I will.
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Summary
As the end of junior year approaches, a mother reflects on the bittersweet journey of letting go. With a mix of nostalgia and pride, she prepares for her son’s transition into adulthood, recognizing that it’s essential to embrace this change with grace and confidence. The narrative also draws parallels between parenting and the natural world, highlighting the importance of nurturing independence.