Mama, I See You, It's Hard, But It's Happening...

Last night, I stood behind the lens watching my middle girl pose for her senior pictures. It was all that I  had not to break down in tears. She was radiant, grounded, and fully stepping into her own. She knows what she needs and what she wants and is confident now in chasing and asking for exactly that. 

And, just like that, in just a few short weeks from now, I’ll be standing in a dorm room at Indiana University, hugging my oldest daughter goodbye as she starts her college journey. It is almost unbearable to imagine the energy in our home without her in it. Ever the calm in the storm and the grace in our heart, the hole will be huge.

Two daughters, two big milestones. The third to pass into high school following this school year, and suddenly I will have no littles left. But here I stand, one proud, emotional, evolving mom in the middle of it all.

These transitions hit different. I feel like I do change well having spent a career in solving complex problems in uncertain times and navigating health battles and launching my own business. 

But this is all its own thing. There’s joy and nostalgia. Gratitude and a bit of grief. It’s a season of launching and witnessing. Of letting go, again and again, while holding space for who they’re becoming and who I’m becoming, too. The mom title stays forever, but they will never need me in the same ways they once did.

This season is stretching me in all the ways with my heart wide open, eyes misty, camera roll overflowing with memories. I’m not ready to let go just yet.

To all you mommas going through it too—maybe sending one off, maybe savoring the lasts, maybe holding both at once—I see you.

I’m sending love, hugs, deep breaths, and a reminder that we are not alone in this. We’re growing, too. We’ve raised these incredible humans, and now we get to witness them soar. And yes, we will get through this, one beautiful, messy, sacred moment at a time. Our mandate has always been there, subconsciously or not…to give them roots and wings.

And in moments like these, I find myself reaching for language that helps make sense of this heart-wrenching, heart-expanding season. One of the most powerful metaphors I’ve ever read comes from Lisa Damour in her book Untangled, where she describes the parent-daughter relationship like this:

“Your daughter is a swimmer, you are the pool in which she swims, and the water is the broader world. Like any good swimmer, she holds on to the edge of the pool to catch her breath after a rough lap or getting dunked too many times.” But eventually… “she pushes you away. Hard.… Like a swimmer who gets her breath back, your daughter wants to return to the water, and she gets there by pushing off the side of the pool.”

She reminds us that just as our girls grip the edge to catch their breath, they will inevitably push off from us to return to the world. That push is not rejection, it’s growth. It’s confidence. It’s what we’ve been preparing them (and ourselves) for all along.

So, that being said, I thought it may be worth a few reminders for us brave mama soldiers out there. Here are a few things I’ve learned, and a few I’m learning to let go of, as I walk through this tender, powerful season, and I hope they help you to.

Five Things I’ve Learned

1. Their growth is not mine to control—but it is mine to celebrate. The wins are theirs. The stumbles are theirs. But the cheering section? That’s always me. They are going to make dumb mistakes, that is the rite of passage, and we need patience to see and support that growth.

   
   

2. Presence beats perfection, every time. They won’t remember if dinner was frozen or fresh, or if the house was clean when their friends always showed up last minute. But they’ll remember that I looked up and listened, that I jumped in to make the popcorn, shared in the stories, and listened to the lore.

   
   

3. Transitions aren’t the end—they’re an expansion. Saying goodbye to one version of our relationship makes room for a deeper, more adult one to grow. I always wanted babies, teens scared me. Being a mom of young adults now stands as one of the most rewarding chapters yet. They are so interesting and inspired and have a whole world ahead of them. In loosening our grip on fixing scabbed knees and teaching them to share, a whole world opens by holding space for their dreams and letting them cry on our shoulders with broken hearts. We now get to listen more; fixing is not always the answer.

   
   

4. Remind them you can listen and not react. They will bring you more if you promise not to jump to fixing conclusions, or the “shoulds.” Practice your poker face, promise that there will not be dire consequences for a first offense, and/or you won’t judge their beloved friend if they share their troubles, promise to help guide them behind the scenes.

   
   

5. It’s okay to grow alongside them. As they take on new roles—student, adult, dreamer—I get to reclaim pieces of myself, too. What does that chapter look like? I am not entirely sure yet, but I promise to leave myself open to listening to what it may be.

Five Things I’m Letting Go Of

1. The guilt of not getting it all “right.” There’s no playbook. Just love, effort, and a lot of learning along the way. There are moments I’ve stumbled over words, Googled what to say, or second-guessed whether I got it “right.” But I’ve learned that it’s not about delivering the perfect line, it’s about showing up with heart. Our kids don’t need scripted answers. They need to feel seen, safe, and loved. And when that’s the goal, we rarely get it wrong.

   
   

2. The myth that closeness means constant contact. Letting go doesn’t mean you’ve lost connection. Sometimes love looks like space, trusting that they’ll come back, not because they have to, but because they want to. Don’t yell at them to call every day, even if that is what we want; give them time and space to explore.

   
   

3. Comparing my journey to anyone else’s. Every family, every kid, every moment is uniquely ours. Including theirs. Stop talking, listen deeply. Don’t judge.

   
   

4. Tightly gripping the old versions of them. They’re growing. And so am I. Clinging holds us both back. Trust them so they are allowed to trust in themselves.

   
   

5. Waiting for “perfect timing” to say how proud I am. The time is always now. Each and every step, trip, win, and loss is ours together.

   
   

This moment is fleeting and full. And while it’s bittersweet, it’s also beautiful. Here’s to the next chapter—for them, and us.

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