Reflections on Letting Go: A Little Detour from Politics and Tackling Propaganda
I raised my kids to have the confidence, curiosity and desire to leave, and they did.
Now what?
I used to think the hardest part of raising another human was the 24/7 worry. Are they okay? Did I get it right? Am I screwing this up in some permanent, character-building way?
What I didn’t realize was that the worry was actually the receipt for being needed.
But being needed was exhausting, relentless, and occasionally thankless. So, my husband and I spent years teaching our kids to need us less. Only to discover that when they finally did, I was left standing in the kitchen wondering what the hell you’re supposed to do with all this freedom.
Nearly three decades ago, when my husband and I excitedly announced to friends and family that we were going to become parents, the advice came flowing.
Soon after our announcement we were gifted a book with the reassuringly obvious title What to Expect When You’re Expecting. Along with it came recommended sleep schedules, the importance of breast feeding, and a reminder of the millions of items that can fit and lodge into tiny noses, ears and throats. Instructions on how many vegetables a child should eat, and approximately 4,000 opinions about everything we were about to do wrong.
And then came the teenage years, when the advice was both serious and conflicting.
Don’t let them have social media accounts. But don’t be so strict that they feel left out. Don’t let them have too much screen time. Monitor their social media but respect their privacy. Talk to them about drugs. Talk to them about sex. Talk to them about vaping, drinking, driving, consent, bullying, anxiety, college, peer pressure, body image, and the dangers of talking to strangers online.
Make sure they get enough sleep but get them up for school. Feed them healthy food, but don’t make food an issue. Set boundaries but give them independence. Know where they are, but don’t helicopter. Be involved, but not too involved. Listen without lecturing. Ask questions without interrogating. Be firm but not controlling. Stay present.
Then there was the advice about college.
Start early. Don’t start too early. Encourage them. Don’t pressure them. Help with the applications. Don’t do the applications. Find the right school. Let them find the right school. Visit campuses. Find a way to pay for it all.
The worry was real, mistakes were made.
But somehow, we all survived. Even thrived. It turns out being needed was well worth the worry that came with it. Then one day I walk by their bedroom, and nobody is in it. The worry I’d tucked away in a pocket of my heart had shifted, and in its place was a gnawing ache. This ache is different than most, because it looks like success but feels like loss. A loss my husband and I engineered ourselves, on purpose, by raising two incredible people capable of leaving and surviving without us.
What nobody handed us was a manual for this chapter. When you become untethered from the daily worry of parenting.
Where is What to Do When Nobody Expects Anything?
Nothing prepares you for the day when you realize you spent more than two decades training two entire humans to walk out the door confidently and successfully. Then they do. Three time zones away, and somehow that was the whole point.
The goal of course was always to arrive here. The spot where you did your job and they successfully took flight.
There should be a book for this part.
How do you reconcile that feeling of missing people that you know are thriving? Nobody prepares you for that particular and peculiar ache. It’s not grief, exactly. Nothing has gone wrong. No one is sick or struggling. Just a low, persistent tug that shows up on a perfectly ordinary Tuesday for no acceptable reason at all. Because your children have become independent adults who live on the opposite coast. You miss them so much it catches you off guard, and for a moment you lose your balance.
You want to call a friend and wallow. But how the hell do you explain, “I feel a little heartsick because everything worked out”, without feeling ridiculous and frankly more than a bit guilty. People look at you like you’ve broken some unspoken rule of gratitude, like contentment and longing aren’t allowed to occupy the same sentence.
But they do.
Although this ache can show up uninvited, the good news is it eases just as quickly. Usually, when my phone buzzes with a photo of a fancy meal out, or an update about a new top. Better yet, a random photo of my kid surrounded by a group of happy friends, or a phone call on their way home from work just to fill me in. Proof of life, proof of connection, proof that missing someone and being deeply, ridiculously happy for them were never actually opposites.
So, I’ve stopped waiting for this particular ache to go away or make sense and started just letting it be what it is.
Untethered love and pride.
