The Tenderness of Letting Go

We knew this time would come for our first child to go to college, but how does one really prepare?

We love this boy.

Dropping our son off at college is something I have been anticipating for a while. This big life transition has felt like it’s been looming over my shoulder, poking at me from time to time. The feeling was both excitement and also deep emotions about the change that I knew was coming.

Thing is, I love being around Owen. He is a “yes, and…” kind of person. Everything seems interesting, or it’s an opportunity to grow, or a new challenge to explore. He’s curious. He wants to know about people.

When he enters a room, if someone is singing, he’ll join in. If someone is dancing, he’ll join in. He comes out of his bedroom in the morning, or when he walks in the door, it’s always a “Hey!” So inviting and welcoming. Every time he sees me he says, “We should hug.”

He shares his life with us and engages. We discuss, we laugh, we watch movies, we get lattes together, we connect about our day … we like being a family together. 

As college drop off came closer, I had moments where I felt the weight of the upcoming change to our family dynamic. I was already missing him before he ever left. My husband Jonathan and I were both feeling it. A week before he left I broke down in tears because I couldn’t remember where we packed the extra toothpaste for him and what if he didn’t have toothpaste and can anyone remember if he has enough toothpaste? Where is the toothpaste?!

I had a deep internal need to nest for him. It was irrational, my crying over toothpaste, but it was just where I directed my anxiety and sadness of his leaving and my deep internal mama need to make him feel comfortable and cared for.

Shortly after the toothpaste incident, my husband pulled me aside and in so many words gently said, “Listen – we need to show up for Owen right now. No more crying in front of him. We need to give him space to have his own feelings, and not create a dynamic where he feels he needs to take care of us. We need to be adults here and offer him support with his own big life transition.” 

I needed to hear this. I needed to be a parent.

And so, we helped him get packed, we listened to his excitement and his anxiety about the unknown – and this week, we moved him in.

Saying Goodbye

After a day of getting his room set up, meeting his roommate and his family, having lunch, and attending an opening convocation ceremony, we knew it was time to say goodbye.

We looked for Owen in the crowd after the ceremony since we didn’t sit with him. He was walking and talking with students from his dorm. J and I had an eagle eye on him – we wanted to catch him so we could have our final moment together.

He saw us, came over and was like, “This is our goodbye.” It was simple: a big hug for each of us, a good-bye/have fun, and then he left to catch up with new friends. Maybe I thought it would be more of a thing, but it wasn’t. It was sweet and short, and I guess just right. This kid was ready.

But then, after that moment, J and I felt a bit as if a blanket had descended upon us. The weight of letting go. The weight of how our 19 years living with this young man and helping him grow are now memories to be found in our photo albums and in stories we share. I wish I could remember all the moments in the past where I said to myself, “Remember this moment and this feeling. This is what it’s all about.” Unfortunately I don’t remember everything – but I know they happened, and I know that in those moments I was in the presence of Love.

We talked together, Jonathan and I, over dinner, and at our hotel room, and in the car the next day going home. We talked about Owen, we talked about our gratitude for having him as a son, we talked about our excitement for the future ahead of him. We talked about how our roles are now changing – that we are moving into the role of advisors. Our job is shifting into being loving sounding boards to him, to be here to offer guidance and open ended questions so that he can figure out what’s right for him on his own. To continue to help him build that self-trust muscle and to honor his intuition.

Back Home

When we arrived home, we immediately went into project mode around our house: Jonathan started organizing and rearranging the garage, and I began cleaning and making space in Owen’s room. We needed to do these projects as part of our processing.

As I woke this morning, after my morning practice, I tuned into myself to see how I was feeling. What I mostly felt was an overwhelming feeling of gratitude. For Owen, for seeing him off on a new journey, for him going to a school where he feels so aligned, for all the lovely people we met on campus, for a move-in process that felt effortless. For being a witness to his life.

I imagine tears will come at different times for both myself and my husband – for a time and a life that is no longer. For remembering the tenderness of the day-to-day connection of a growing family. For family dinners as the four of us. For laughing together during movie night or watching comedies. For walking the dogs together. For going to dance concerts and speech tournaments and other events. For working out issues and big feelings together. For daily hugs. For being in communion with each other every day.

I found this letter Owen had written to us when he left for an overnight school trip in 5th grade. It says,

“As you know I will be gone for 3 days, 2 nights. These are some things you can do while I’m gone. You can hangout as a family and let Piper pick the dinner the 1st night. You should read a lot. Please think about me a lot. Daddy you can play tennis. Momy, you and Piper can cook. Have a great time. I hope you guys are relaxed and happy while I’m gone.

I LOVE YOU GUYS, Owen, your son”

I will take this advice now. Jonathan, Piper, and I will hangout as a family. We will read a lot. Jonathan will play tennis. Piper and I can cook. We’ll work on being relaxed and happy while he’s gone.

And yes, Owen, we will think of you, a lot. 

Thanks for reading. Keep holding the light. xo, Laurie