Six months ago, as my eldest son embarked on his senior year of high school, I made a promise to myself. I even documented it in a blog post, believing that my experience would be easier this time around with my second child. Yet, here I am—six months later—realizing that my struggles with letting go were far more profound than I anticipated. As the bitter cold of the Minnesota winter settled in, my heart was gripped by fear, battling an overwhelming tide of emotions swirling around both me and my son. I tried to distinguish my feelings from his, but how do you separate individual snowflakes amidst a storm?
There were ACTs, college applications, a cycle of waiting, hope, and then rejection. The emotional rollercoaster was dizzying: excitement, confusion, joy, fear. I felt both that he was ready and that he wasn’t anywhere near it. As time marched on, I found myself wishing it could just freeze for a moment. “Leave me alone, Mom,” he would say at times, and at others, “When will you be home?” It was a whirlwind of agony and elation—a dizzying mix of emotions.
Fortunately, as spring approached, the heaviness of winter began to lift, and the warmer air signaled a thaw. The beauty of transition emerged with the melting snow, which echoed the easing of many uncertainties. Despite my son’s college decision being made and graduation festivities approaching, I still grappled with how many rays of sunshine it would take to melt the icy feelings in my chest.
As I embraced the warmth of the season, I found myself filled with pride and relief, along with the familiar emotions that come with such a significant transition. The process of letting go is not just a simple act; it is a deep and complex journey that pulls and tugs at the heartstrings of both mother and child. I know my son feels this too, even when I do my best to mask it. I see it reflected in his bright green eyes when he thinks I’m not watching.
I often wonder if he shares my acute awareness of time passing. Does he feel the anticipation of spring turning into summer? Does he recognize that summer symbolizes both an ending and a new beginning? Or is he focused on savoring the present, cherishing the final moments of this chapter of his life—something I should be doing as well? I’m certainly trying my best.
Yet, my thoughts often drift to the end of summer, imagining us boarding a flight that will take us 2,000 miles away from him. My husband and I will return home without our son, who will be starting a new life at college—a life where I won’t be able to hug him goodnight or witness the joy of him bounding down the stairs each morning. The daily routine of hearing him walk in the door with his familiar greeting, “Hi Mom, I’m hungry,” will become a cherished memory.
These moments I now hold dear will become a part of the past, and I’ll only learn about his new adventures through sporadic phone calls or texts. I suspect he may not share when he misses me, but I’ll know he does. The distance of 2,000 miles won’t diminish my desire to nurture, protect, and love him as I have for the last 18 years.
Spring represents transformation and the act of letting go—the melting away of fear, the blossoming of new beginnings as the eaglet prepares for its first flight, while the mother readies herself for this momentous occasion. It’s almost time for him to soar, but not just yet.