To My Dear Little One, For the Day You Drop Me Off

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“Mommy, can you come too? Please don’t go!”

As I slipped on your tiny shoes, your little hand reached for mine. We adjusted your adorable blue backpack, and I tried to offer a comforting smile, but inside, my heart was heavy. In the parking lot of your new preschool, I could see the tears welling up in your eyes. You shuffled toward your classroom, gripping my finger tightly, your lip quivering.

If this is a positive step, why does it feel so difficult?

On your first day of preschool, you reached out for me, tears streaming down your cheeks. I kissed you goodbye and turned toward my car, forcing myself to walk away from your cries. It was heartbreaking. I wish you could grasp why this moment is important, but at just 2 years old, that’s a lot to ask.

By now, you’re probably back inside with your new friends, and the tears have likely dried up. As for me? I’m just beginning to feel the weight of it all. While these emotions are still raw, I’m sitting in the car, penning you a letter. Because one day—when you’re older and can understand—I want to share with you what preschool drop-offs really mean.

My Precious Child,

By the time you read this, those preschool drop-offs will be just a faint memory. In fact, you might not remember them at all. You won’t recall the tears or the way your teacher gently held you while I hurried back to my car—fearing I might lose my nerve and snatch you from their embrace. You won’t remember my anxious face or the flush of your cheeks. But I will.

You won’t know how much time your dad and I spent deliberating over which school would nurture, protect, and inspire you. It took us six long months in our new city to finally muster the courage to enroll you. After touring twelve schools—yes, twelve!—we chose that charming little temple with colorful decorations on every wall. We wanted you to feel comfortable, to make friends, and to explore your world with confidence while I stayed out of your way. You won’t remember our sleepless nights or the tears we shed over this decision, but we will never forget.

You won’t know how I felt guilty at home, scrubbing the carpet for the third time, tidying up while wondering if by 10 a.m. your faith in me had already crumbled. While you worried about where I was, I was on the phone with Ms. Emily, excitedly hearing how you played with that brown plastic donut and giggled when your teacher blew bubbles during circle time. You may not remember these details, but know that I will.

Maybe you’ll read this when you’re 7, rolling your eyes at how dramatic I am. Perhaps you’ll be a teenager, embarrassed by my heartfelt confession. Or maybe, just maybe, you’ll be packing up a sturdy sedan filled with your belongings, a college bumper sticker on the back, and you’ll smile reassuringly at me while I hold your hand tightly.

As you drive away, perhaps you’ll find this letter tucked neatly in the passenger seat.

One day, it will be my turn at drop-off. Maybe I’ll maintain a brave face, or maybe I’ll shed tears like I did today. Either way, you’ll rush back to your new adventure, not looking back. You won’t remember the lunch boxes, the tiny socks, or your favorite shirt. You won’t recall that I woke up early to make blueberry muffins before preschool or that I sat in the car, writing this letter while I cried like a baby. You’ll never know the mix of pride, joy, and heartache that floods a parent’s heart when they see their child take steps toward independence.

You won’t know how that feels, but I will.

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In short, this letter is a heartfelt reminder of the bittersweet moments of growing up, the love and care that goes into every step you take, and a promise that I will always remember what you may forget.