How Do I Let Go?
We only had 72 hours to make a life-changing decision. Yet how could we say no?
I plopped onto the cold, hard bathroom floor and cried. A downpour with no warning whatsoever. It gutted me. Just when I thought I’d adapted to becoming an early empty nester.
This is not how it’s supposed to be. This is not what we planned. Yet here we are. When our daughter took a leap of faith and applied to an arts high school 2,000 miles away, we said, “Sure why not.” Then my husband and I would shut the bedroom door and smile. Hoping she’d fulfill her dream. Hoping it would be for her senior year. Not the case.
It turns out, she was accepted, and that meant she would leave us at the end of August. I would be losing two years with my daughter, my youngest.
Shouldn’t I be ecstatic? A proud momma welcoming this edited version of our life’s story? I am. I do. But boy did this shift trigger and excavate pieces of me. Startled awake by my own sobs, I’d marinate in my own saline as it soaked the soft, taupe pillowcase.
A lifetime of emotions erupted when my son left the nest. I’m not one to cry much — I laugh at everything to the point where my body shakes with unbridled joy and mortifies my kids.
So, the unexpected bursts of feelings caught me off guard. I’d heard it may be tough to let go, especially the first kid to leave. But I didn’t recognize myself and even called my doctor to check my hormones, certain this propelled me into peri-menopause. Nope. My body remained totally balanced and pumping estrogen.
Iwill never forget the moment the letter arrived. We’d surprised Zoe for her birthday with a trip to the Music City. After leaving the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum, we headed to a diner to grab take out. Then I heard her voice chime over the Nashville wind.
“Mom, I got an email.”
I gave her the wait-a-second stare as I continued to glance at the ketchup-stained, sticky menu. Then I heard her soprano voice again.
“I got in.”
I’m not quite sure what happened next. What I do remember is Zoe’s warm, sturdy hand on my back, guiding me toward the street corner.
“Mom. You are embarrassing me. Would you please stop crying?”
Then I giggled, literally doubled over, and wailed. I must’ve looked like a complete lunatic. And I didn’t give a hoot. My husband and I read and reread the email over Zoe’s shoulder. His greenish-blue eyes, so much like hers, met mine. Misty, proud, and nervous.
We only had 72 hours to make a life-changing decision. Would we let Zoe leave and miss two years of her living at home? Yet how could we say no?
A few weeks later, my barely 17-year-old, golden-haired girl pushed a teetering pile of toiletries and dorm accessories in the familiar red Target cart. The usual items purchased for a college freshman. NOT a high school junior.
My honey didn’t understand the gentle hand squeezes. I progressed to gentle pinches.
“What? Why are you poking me?” he muttered.
I shook my head, grateful Zoe gathered the goodies and stood ahead of us. She’d started to unload the cart. I teetered on the precipice of unloading my heart. I mouthed to him, “I am about to have a meltdown.”
He handed me the car keys. I barely made it through the sliding doors before my eyes unleashed. Again. During the four days we spent at her new school, I wailed in bathrooms, closets, and the corner of a cafeteria. How could I let my free-spirited singer see me unravel?
I learned from my own folks that strength meant sucking it up. Even during sickness, deaths, and disappointments. I remember my parents being thrilled to send me on my merry way (and not just for college.). I respect how they emote differently.
They were deserts, and I, apparently, am a rainforest.
That’s when it hit me. The why behind such intensity. When my son left, it followed the somewhat typical itinerary of a child’s departure. I sobbed at random times and with varying intensity. Yet he followed the usual course.
With my daughter, I feel like I’m losing two precious years with her jamming, growing, connecting, and chattering under the same roof. It’s again when I realize a loss is also a gain.
I have embraced the silence. The timing is synchronous as it’s given me space to write and create. I’ve relished every second of hearing Zoe play the guitar and even the socks strewn across the family room floor. I’ll miss tripping over her tennis shoes. I’ll miss her bursting into my bedroom, unannounced, exuberant about a new melody.
There’s courage in crying. There’s healing in the release. She chose to be brave. Now I will as well.
**Author note: I wrote the above essay months ago and waited to publish it until the end of the school year. As I reread this piece, Zoe and Todd are chitchatting in the kitchen. My nest is full. So are my eyes. These tears are a trifecta of grief, gratitude, and gratification.
