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“I just missed it! I can’t believe I let that happen!” I exclaimed to the parent sitting next to me at my younger son’s high school graduation, held at an outdoor venue. I had failed to capture that perfect moment—the one where my tall, lanky boy bent down to receive his diploma from the principal. His wide smile, dotted with acne and clad in pink-patterned sneakers, still showcased him as a teenager, not quite an adult yet.
“I knew this would happen!” I fretted to Mark, who patiently listened to my panic. “If only my husband hadn’t let the batteries die…” Thankfully, the emcee interrupted my spiral by announcing Mark’s son’s name. “Oh no, Mark! Did I make you miss the shot?” I asked, horrified that my moment of frustration affected him too.
“No, Emily, I got it. Don’t worry!” he reassured me. But worry I did. I was letting my feelings overshadow the joy of my son’s ceremony. I had promised myself to make it a day about him, not me. I had managed to keep my emotions in check at my older son’s graduation two years prior, but this time, I couldn’t.
Typically, when I felt an emotional breakdown looming, I would seek out distractions. But here, none were available. Every parent seemed completely absorbed in the ceremony, uninterested in small talk. The graduates’ bright red gowns concealed their outfits, which I usually fixated on during football games as a distraction when a player was injured. It wasn’t hot enough for my own hot flashes to bother me, and even the persistent chirping of cicadas couldn’t drown out my thoughts.
According to the somewhat clichéd graduation speaker, “the best is yet to come.” Perhaps for my son and his friends, but for me, “the best” hinted at a future where I would transition from an active participant to a mere spectator in my son’s life. I would no longer call him on my way home from work to ask what protein-packed meal I should prepare. I wouldn’t be there to share laughs about my chocolate chip cookie obsession while we lounged on the couch, waiting for his dad to arrive. I wouldn’t be able to wrap my arms around him after intense conversations.
As I scanned the sea of parents, all seemingly more engaged than I was, I pondered whether they were simply good at faking it. I wasn’t one of those overly attached moms trying to project my own needs onto my children, unlike my own mother. My husband and I had fostered independence in our sons, encouraging them to explore, find friends, and carve out their paths. With an empty nest on the horizon, I’d even started reviving my freelance writing career in anticipation of the newfound time I would have.
Then it hit me. For the past two decades, I had identified myself primarily as a mother—a working mom, a soccer mom, a boys’ mom, a first-generation mom. My sons have influenced every choice I’ve made for as long as I can remember. While my husband has been a fantastic father, I’ve shouldered the bulk of the responsibilities—scheduling conferences, rushing to pick them up from daycare, coordinating carpools for soccer and basketball practices, and running last-minute errands for school events. I did all this willingly, aiming to provide more stability, love, and support than I had received growing up.
Now, it was time to let my youngest son take this significant step and for our home to feel quieter when I came back from work. The focus would shift more towards my husband and me, with the prospect of new hobbies and beginnings, as countless articles suggested.
As we navigated through the crowd of parents, siblings, and relatives to meet our graduates for post-ceremony photos, I realized I might not be ready for this transition, but my son was. He deserved this moment, especially after a tumultuous year during which he hadn’t even set foot inside a classroom.
So, like any devoted mother would, I reminded myself to prioritize his needs over mine. “Have a wonderful time at the party, sweetheart!” I said after snapping a few photos and giving him a warm hug. He handed me a messy stack of his cap, gown, and diploma.
As my husband and I headed to the car, I turned to glimpse parents capturing their last photos, their figures shadowed by the approaching dusk, their voices drowned out by the cicadas. I smiled, reflecting on how fitting it was that these peculiar insects, which last emerged when my younger son took his first steps, had returned to celebrate his transition into this new phase of life.
Once we settled into the car, I finally allowed myself to shed a few tears.
This article was originally published on June 12, 2021.
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Summary:
In this reflective piece, Emily Johnson shares her struggles to truly enjoy her son’s high school graduation. Feeling overwhelmed by emotions and the impending transition to an empty nest, she grapples with her identity as a mother and the changes that lie ahead. Despite her worries, she ultimately prioritizes her son’s needs, embracing the moment while recognizing the bittersweet nature of this milestone.