My son’s bedroom door is closed again. Music thumps softly behind it as I stand in the hallway, laundry basket in hand, wondering if I should knock. I decide against it.
These days, I’m learning the delicate dance of holding on and letting go.
We’ve entered what I’ve come to call “the leaving year” – that strange, emotional final semester before my firstborn heads to college.
The calendar on our kitchen wall, once filled with high school football games and SAT prep sessions, now displays a college dorm deposit deadline and drop off day. The leaving year is one long, surreal countdown.
I am overcome with nostalgia and my son is still home
Last night, I found myself sitting in my car in the driveway after returning from the grocery shopping. I’d bought all his favorite things ignoring the expense. I was so overcome with nostalgia in the grocery store and he’s still at home.
So I splurge on food as if that will hold back the clock, like a great steak will slow down time.
The college sweatshirt he got at Christmas now makes regular appearances at the breakfast table. He wears it with a casual pride, already trying on his next identity while still firmly rooted in this one.
I watch him texting friends about weekend plans, simultaneously planning his college roommate situation.
My son exists in two worlds now
He exists in two worlds now. I’m still adjusting to only belonging in one of them. My friends with older children warned me about this phase. “It’s harder on you than on them,” they said with knowing smiles.
They were right.
While he excitedly looks forward, I’m the one lying awake at night looking backwards. Have I taught him everything he needs to know. I have prepared him for this life here in our house, in our town, but have I done enough to prepared him for his life without us?
The college counselor assured us this sudden maternal panic is normal. “They’re ready even when we don’t think they are,” she said. I’m trying to believe her.
The leaving year has changed our household rhythm. Arguments over curfew have given way to conversations about life goals. When we disagree, I find myself picking battles differently, aware that we’re establishing the foundation of our adult relationship. Aware that I will not spend our last months fighting with him.
Will my son be happy?
My husband approaches this transition with practical projects – teaching our son to create a budget, explaining health insurance, setting up a new credit card. I envy his focus on the tangible aspects of this transition. My concerns drift toward the intangible – will he be happy? Will he find his people? Will he know how deeply he is loved even when we’re not there to show him daily?
The other night, unexpectedly, he sat next to me on the couch while I was reading. He wanted to rewatch one of the Lord of the Rings movies together. We had watched it together when he was little. When he headed up to bed, he hugged me a beat longer than usual. “Love you, Mom,” he said, no longer embarrassed by the words.
These are the moments I’m collecting like precious stones in this leaving year – the spontaneous conversations in the car, the family dinners where everyone actually shows up, the glimpses of the little boy still visible in his almost-man’s face.
So now I navigate these remaining months with intention
Yesterday, I passed another mom in the school parking lot. Her daughter, like my son, is a senior. We exchanged a look of perfect understanding – part pride, part grief, completely love. “The leaving year,” she said simply. Nothing more. We both nodded, no further explanation needed.
So now I navigate these remaining months with intention. I’m trying to take mental photographs of ordinary moments – the pile of sneakers by the door, the sound of his laugh from the basement where he’s gaming with friends, the way the house smells when he’s just showered and used all that body wash. These are the sensory memories I’ll revisit in the too-quiet house come August.
This is the way it should be
I know millions of parents have walked this path before me. Children grow up; it’s the natural order of things, the successful outcome of years of parenting. But knowing that doesn’t make the leaving year any less bittersweet.
For now, I’ll knock on his door after all, just to ask if he needs anything washed for tomorrow. I’ll listen to his plans for the weekend and remind him about his dentist appointment.
I’ll continue this delicate dance – holding space for his growing independence while holding tight to these fleeting days, the leaving months.
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To My Daughter As She Leaves for College: Remember These 12 Things
