“I just want to go over a couple papers before we leave,” I said, hastily pulling out a couple items from my purse, my eyes squinting in the afternoon sun. “This is the one that’s most important—the walk-in information for the counseling center. I want you to have that in case you need it, OK?”
“And here’s the info on the bus schedule. It’s free with your student ID.” “Oh, and you’ll need this for urgent care. Remember you have a copy of Daddy’s insurance card. You’ll need to show that if you go, OK?”
My eyes searched for hers, as I speedily shuffled through the papers, a million sensory receptors putting out a call, asking to be comforted, but my daughter’s heart and mind were elsewhere.
I tried to get my daughter’s attention before we left her at school
It was mid-day and we were hot, sweaty and tired from the move. A five and a half hour return trip lay ahead for two of the three of us. “I guess that’s about it,” I said, trying to recapture her attention.
She was staring into her phone, smiling. Two of the friends she had met at orientation over the summer had already arrived and were texting to meet up. My mom heart sank as I realized, even in this final moment before saying goodbye, I was competing with what was on the screen in her palm—and, worse, I was losing.
“So…I guess we’re going to go,” I said as flatly as possible, hoping to disguise the feeling of dejection slowly creeping up from my chest to my throat, my heart wincing from the realization that, though she still sat beside me, mentally, she was already gone.
It had been a hectic race that afternoon to get her situated in the new digs, the roommates’ move-in times scattered to allow everyone in the room time alone to set up.
I knew these were the final few minutes
But now our window was up and we needed to cede the space to her roommate who had just arrived. Gathering our things, we moved outside, finding a table in a shaded corner of the courtyard, a welcome respite from the blazing afternoon sun.
I knew these were our final minutes and there was so much more I wanted to say before leaving but nothing that came from my mouth had a chance in reaching my daughter’s distracted ears.
In that moment, she was more focused on meeting up with new friends than anything else, and this seemed to include any energy towards our impending goodbye. Minutes later, after we had hugged and taken pictures, we separated—my husband and me in the direction of our car, our daughter in the opposite direction.
As we walked away I wondered if my daughter would give me some recognition
I had walked only a few steps when I found myself turning around to watch her go. Would she pause or turn back? Would she give anything away that I could hold onto in that moment, that this departure, away from us (from me), meant something to her?
I watched and I waited. But she didn’t turn around. She kept going. And that is when the waterworks came, heavy and unabated—wave after wave of every uncried tear of the previous year.
I cried that we were leaving her there. I cried for the things that were unsaid. But mostly I cried because our leaving—my leaving—didn’t seem to matter.
I was like a wounded child, needing to be seen and heard, my pain witnessed. What a jolly way to start a long car ride. An hour and a half into our drive home, and infinite tear and snot-soaked tissues later, I (blessedly) started to see things differently.
Once I thought about it I realized that the truth was, as comfortable as I was to stew in hurt feelings about how I felt my daughter should have behaved at drop-off, another (less painful) story was also true.
I needed to stop being the victim
To see it, though, I would need to extricate my character (the victim) from the plot line. Once I did that, and set my feelings aside, I was able to see and celebrate the fact that my daughter was running toward, not from, this new experience.
She was ready to pull up anchor and throttle forward into the unknown and that was damn brave of her. My mom heart knew the upcoming year would challenge her. Coming from living in her own spacious bedroom, semi-private bathroom just beyond her door, to a matchbox-sized triple built to house two, would be a major adjustment.
Climbing steps into a lofted bed, having to democratically determine with her roommates the agreed upon boundaries of light, sound and temperature and (Dear God in Heaven) sharing communal bathrooms—man, I want nothing of that craziness at this age!
And yet, she seemed unfazed, even excited, about it all. Seeing this transition through my daughter’s eyes, I felt so much pride in the fact that she was actually ready to bust open the clips on her wings.
I wanted my daughter to focus on me
The ego-centered version of me that wanted my daughter to be focused on me, gracious and aware of all that I had thought through and done for her to prepare for this day to be a success had hurt feelings at drop off.
(I’m not proud to write or read back those words, but they’re true.)
That me wanted a longer, tighter, squeeze goodbye—more eyes on me and less focus on the phone in her hand; a turn of the head and a smile as she walked away.
But that wasn’t to be. And that’s not only OK; it’s how it needed to be.
My daughter was doing big, brave things that day. It wasn’t her job to intuit and take care of my feelings (as much as I wanted her to in that moment). Her only job that day was to walk into The Great Unknown, grounded by her roots and buoyed by her wings.
And she did it beautifully.
Mitch Albom wrote in his book The Five People You Meet in Heaven, “Parents rarely want to let go of their children, so the children let go of them.”
I had an opportunity to share my experience with a mom who had been through the same thing
But, here’s the thing. We don’t have to do hard things alone. In fact, we shouldn’t.
Likely, right now in your circle, there’s a whole host of people who have come before you, and survived this moment in their lives, who can light the way with their encouragement and wisdom.
As it was for me, I didn’t yet know it on the drive home, but a couple of days later, I would have a chance to lick my wounds with a mom friend who has her own two grown and flown daughters.
She was extra intuitive, kind and persistent in her outreach both leading up to, and on the day of, my daughter’s move-in.
I was barely home from our trip when she treated me to a lunch that included fancy frozen drinks and copious amounts of delicious onion rings.
More importantly, during that lunch, she gave me the space to be all up in my feelings, even sharing a story or two of her own in the spirit of commiseration.
This made me feel so seen and loved, like I wasn’t crazy for having the feelings I had, and I felt so much lighter afterwards. During that lunch, I thought of my daughter, somewhere 360 miles away, and hoped she was doing the same in the new community she was making.
I hoped she’d find people with whom she could be her truest self and that when she was down, they would be kind and intuitive like my friend.
And you know what? She did.
In fact, those two friends she was so eager to meet up with on drop off day are still two of her closest friends today. Freshman year is officially in the books. Happily, I can report that we both survived and looking forward to the beginning of Sophomore year.
It wasn’t all easy. There was a lot of necessary, developmentally appropriate, individuating (mine, wink-wink) that needed to happen. We found our rhythm and I promise you will, too, no matter how ugly the dismount at drop-off.
(But, just in case, it’s probably best to have that frozen drink and onion ring order queued up before you go!)
More Great Reading:
College Move-In Day: 17 Things That Will Save Your Life!
It’s College Drop-Off Time; Breathe It’s Really Going to Be Okay
