By: Karen Caton, Certified Life Coach
I was carrying the laundry basket down the hall. I walked past her room. The door was open just a few inches, and I saw her sitting on her bed. I was moving quickly because I don't really like laundry and the basket was heavy. I stepped one foot beyond her doorway and stopped. I heard a voice inside me say, "Karen, stop. Stop and look at her." So I set the basket down in the hall and quietly backed up. I stood in the dark hallway, my hands clutched to my chest, and I looked at her.
Her laptop was open, the glow of the screen shining on her face. Music softly played in the background. Her hair was in a messy bun on the top of her head. Tiny strands framed her face, and I was half tempted to go in and brush the hair out of her eyes. Her bed was covered in books, papers, new pens, and a journal. The sparkly chandelier above her bed cast patterns and shadows all around her. Two pairs of dirty socks and overalls on the floor. A cup of tea on her nightstand, track and field medals, and a graduation cap hanging on the wall beside her. She exhaled slowly as she typed away on the computer. Her exhale made the strands quiver, which tickled her face enough to make her push the hair from her eyes. She looked up at the ceiling as though the answer to a question was written in the sky.
My lips quivered as tears streamed down my face. Every memory flooded into my mind. The sound of her cry as a baby. Her white-blonde toddler curls. Pushing her on the swings, tucking her into bed. School plays. The feeling of those last days of being able to hold her in my arms. Middle school angst. Her painful tears during the divorce. Seeing her find the mastery of her physical strength through athletics. Holding her heart during heartbreaks and friend troubles. Watching her find her voice and her power. I almost gasped but didn't want her to hear me, not because I was ashamed, but because I did not want the moment to end.
You see, she is leaving. My girl is heading to college. She is a spring admit, so she will begin in January instead of August. So I am sucking the marrow out of every moment, even if it occurs in a dark hallway, through a partially opened door.
I got a job on March 3, 2001. It was a good job — an important role. I became a CEO overnight. I've never held a role as demanding. The job required total commitment and every skill I had. And, oh man, I had to develop many new skills quickly. There was no textbook, training, or workshop to prepare me for the totality of the experience of being a mom.
Motherhood has a way of shoving your sense of self deep under the covers, like forgotten socks left tangled in the sheets after a night of restless sleep. Only when you change the linens do those misplaced pieces of yourself reemerge. Let's face it. We don't change the sheets that often. How easily we forget parts of ourselves beneath the expanded world of motherhood. Motherhood changes you. Even the most self-aware, confident, and centered women I know find the balance between motherhood and self very tricky. It does more than weave itself into the fabric of who you are. It can become you. We let it wash over us and carry us downstream into the unknown waters of motherhood.
As my daughter prepares to embark on this new journey, I find myself at the edge of a great unknown - the river of her childhood and motherhood as I have known, merging with the boundless ocean of our future. I stand in the dark hallway, peering into her room, knowing she will soon set sail. I know I will, too. Like I did when she was born, I wonder what life will be like in these deep, uncharted waters. But this time, I wonder if I remember how to sail on my own.
When Zoë was born, my dad held her in his arms and said, "Today is the day that you begin to let her go." I sat there with my mouth open, thinking, "Let her go? She is three hours old! NEVER! I will never, ever let her go." Leaving for college felt like it was a lifetime away.
The statement caught me off guard. Letting go wasn't part of his plan. He was paralyzed with fear and grief when my siblings and I began to outgrow our youth and did what we could differentiate. His tight hold paved the path to adulthood with guilt and shame. It was painful for all of us. I told myself that my grip would be light and that I would continue to be self-expressed when I became a parent. But as I lay there with this perfect little human, I could feel myself clinging to her like a life raft, just as he had done with me years before.
It wasn't until I became a parent that I understood that our children's lives serve as mirrors, reflecting back to us the best parts of ourselves. Their smiles, their laughter, their accomplishments—these become the shining beams that illuminate our own goodness. It's captivating. We see our values, our strengths, and our capacity for love embodied in these beings. We encourage their self-expression and feel more of our own.
But as our children grow, that mirror begins to tilt, shifting inward toward their own emerging identities. The reflection we once saw so clearly in their eyes grows hazy, then fades as they turn their gaze upon themselves, seeking to define who they are apart from us.
This is the moment that many parents feel a sense of loss, an ache for the days when their child's life felt like a life raft. Hugs, laughter, and conversation are replaced with slamming doors, frustrated words, and the desire to be around anyone but you. That has never been more true than right now. Things are tense and gritty. She is picking fights and throwing her hands in the air more than usual. Who wants to leave calm waters for unknown places? It leaves you feeling bloodied, bruised, and unsure of who you are unless you understand that the mirror is simply reorienting. Sometimes that's messy.
The task is to step back and afford them the space to discover themselves, secure in the knowledge that, mirror or not, our children carry within them the best of who we are. Deep down, we know this separation is necessary—a vital part of the journey to becoming whole, independent individuals. It requires believing in our own beauty and picking up the mirror to see it for ourselves. This will take getting used to.
"Let her go," he said. I was so angry then, but I now have a new appreciation for my dad and what he was saying. His statement was an apology for holding onto me so tightly and a call to action to do things differently on my motherhood journey.
He was trying to say, "Hold her close, but not too tightly, because she doesn't belong to you. You belong to you. Be the space for her. Be the example of who she aspires to be by staying whole in a world that tells us not to. She doesn't owe you a thing. Evolve and become. Anchor yourself to your internal wisdom and never, ever lose sight of the wonder of you. Love her, but be separate from her so she can make mistakes and learn to be a whole person who can be compassionate to herself and others. She is a whole, unique person. So are you. She will sail away. You must be whole when she isn't there to tell you that you are. Be the best you and it will be all right. Let her go, and let her grow.”
As they go, they are whispering these words to us, too. "I'm going to hold you close, but not too tightly, because you don't belong to me. I will stay whole in a world that begs me not to. You don't owe me a thing. Evolve and become. Let's make some mistakes. We are whole. Be the best you, and I'll be the best me, and we will be all right. I'm going to let you go and let you grow." You can hear those words in the slamming doors and frustrated conversations if you listen closely. It serves as the wind needed for all to begin again.
It doesn't matter if you realize this on the day they are born or in a darkened hallway with a laundry basket in hand. Transitions and uncharted waters give us all room to access a fuller expression of ourselves in the world. We take what we've learned about ourselves on our journey and bring forth even more of who we are. We heal guilt, shame, and other under-expressed feelings that linger in the shadows. It's when we hold our own mirror and learn to fall in love with ourselves. Deeper, again, or maybe for the first time.
I'm uncertain, anxious, and scared. I bet you are, too. It's fucking hard to let go of a perfectly good life raft. I will miss her voice in the house, the energy she brings, picking up the teacups left on the nightstand, and finding her little green baby blanket underneath her pillow. I will miss seeing my reflection in her eyes. To be honest, it's been a while since I opened up my sails and let the wind carry me to new places and uncharted waters. But we've seen it all: rough seas, big storms, and sparkling calm waters. We've been to some amazing places on our parenting journeys. Can you imagine where we'll go with two boats and a strong wind at our backs?
I steal one last glance into her room. The hallway grows darker as I walk toward the laundry room, basket in hand—quietly observing the girl who continues to teach me so much about myself. With that inner anchor trailing behind us, we can set sail, confident our bond will remain unbroken by the changing tides—two distinct yet eternally interconnected journeys under the same sky.
Want support as you set sail? Schedule a free 30-minute life coaching discovery call with Karen: https://calendly.com/kcbcoaching/1-1-life-coaching-discovery-call-with-karen-caton-brunings