I used to think that maybe one day this would get easier.
That after the first goodbye…
The second move…
The third trip back to college…
…my heart would finally learn how to let go a little easier.
It hasn’t.
When Aurora graduated early from high school and moved to Bozeman, I remember standing in two completely different emotions at the exact same time. I was incredibly proud of the young woman she had become. Proud of her courage. Proud that she was chasing the life God was calling her into.
And at the very same time, I felt completely heartbroken.
I remember wondering how both emotions could exist together. How could my heart feel so full and so empty all at once?
Now here we are.
Three years later.
She’ll be a junior this fall.
As I watch her feverishly packing her room, making piles, checking lists, folding clothes, and preparing for another Thursday morning departure, I find myself right back in that same place.
The house is full of excitement.
My heart is full of grief.
It’s funny how muscle memory works.
The sound of hangers clinking together.
The suitcases coming out of storage.
The piles slowly disappearing from her room.
Every little thing reminds me that another season is ending.
People often say, “Well, you’ve done this before.”
They’re right.
I have.
But I don’t think a mother’s heart keeps score that way.
Love doesn’t become smaller because you’ve practiced goodbye.
If anything, every goodbye reminds you just how deeply you’ve loved.
For years, our days were filled with cheer, a million school activities, football games under Friday night lights, late-night conversations, laughter around the kitchen table, and hearing, “Mom!” called from somewhere in the house.
Now those moments come in shorter visits.
Phone calls.
Text messages.
Trips home.
This summer has felt especially bittersweet.
In many ways, it’s only been her second real summer at home since she left for college. Even this one has been shortened by cheer practices, schedules, and the life she’s building beyond our four walls.
As I watch her pack, I can’t help but realize this is the last summer that will feel like this. Next summer, she’ll be chasing another dream through an internship somewhere else in the country. The summers of having her home for months at a time have quietly slipped behind us. They’ll become weekends, holidays, and vacations. Precious visits instead of ordinary days.
I knew this day would come.
That’s the goal, isn’t it?
To raise children who spread their wings.
But knowing it’s coming doesn’t soften the reality when you’re standing in it.
So this summer, even though it was shorter than I wanted, I’m choosing gratitude over wishing for more time.
I’m grateful for every cup of coffee shared around the kitchen table.
Every late-night conversation.
Every laugh that echoed through the house.
Every ordinary day that, looking back, wasn’t ordinary at all.
Because I’ve learned that sometimes we don’t recognize the “lasts” until they’ve already become memories.
I’ve realized something about motherhood.
We spend years teaching our children to become independent, praying they become brave enough to chase their dreams.
Then one day…
They do.
And somehow the answer to our prayers is also the ache in our hearts.
I wouldn’t ask her to stay.
Not because I won’t miss her.
But because I love watching her become exactly who God created her to be.
That’s the beautiful tension of motherhood.
We raise them with open hands, even when every part of us wants one more hug, one more conversation around the kitchen table, one more ordinary Tuesday together.
Maybe that’s what love really is.
Choosing to celebrate someone’s growth, even while you’re grieving the space it leaves behind.
So this Thursday morning, I’ll probably cry again.
I’ll hug her a little longer than she expects.
I’ll remind her to call home.
And then I’ll watch her drive toward the life she’s building.
Not because it’s easy.
Because it’s worth it.
And while a part of my heart leaves with her every single time, I know something else is true.
God is already waiting for her.
He’s in the sorority house.
He’s in her classrooms.
He’s with her teammates at practice.
He’s in every friendship, every opportunity, every challenge, and every moment of growth that this new year will bring.
The same God who faithfully carried us through the first goodbye is the same God who will carry us through this one too.
So no…
It doesn’t get easier.
But maybe that’s because love was never supposed to.
Maybe each goodbye is simply another reminder that the greatest gifts God gives us are never really ours to keep. They’re ours to nurture, encourage, pray over, and eventually release back into His hands.
As parents, we spend so much time counting the firsts.
First steps.
First words.
First day of school.
First driver’s license.
First day of college.
But somewhere along the way, the lasts quietly slip in unnoticed.
The last summer she spends months at home.
The last time her bedroom is lived in every day.
The last ordinary Tuesday when everyone is around the kitchen table.
We rarely know they’re the last while we’re living them.
Maybe that’s why God calls us to be present.
To savor today instead of borrowing tomorrow.
To give thanks for what is, instead of grieving what will someday be gone.
And if I know anything, it’s this:
The same God who has been faithful in our home will be faithful in hers.
So I’ll wipe my tears.
I’ll say another goodbye.
I’ll whisper another prayer as she pulls out of the driveway.
And I’ll thank God that while she may be leaving my house once again, she will never leave His presence.
And somehow…
That gives this mama’s heart the courage to let go one more time!
Recipe is for Letting Go
Ingredients
- One brave child with dreams bigger than your front door
- A lifetime of memories gathered around the kitchen table
- Countless hugs, whispered prayers, and “I love yous”
- A heart that is equal parts grateful and aching
- A handful of tears (don’t measure—they’ll come when they come)
- More faith than fear
- An abundance of God’s grace
Directions
Hold them close for as long as the season allows.
Cheer louder than your fear.
Celebrate the woman they’re becoming, even as you quietly grieve the little girl they used to be.
Soak in the ordinary moments, because one day you’ll realize they were extraordinary all along.
When it’s time, loosen your grip..but never your love.
Release them into the hands of the same God who entrusted them to yours.
Then stand at the end of the driveway.
Wave until you can’t see them anymore.
Wipe your tears.
Whisper one more prayer.
Trust that love stretches farther than miles, and that no goodbye is ever outside of God’s reach.
Serves: A mama learning that letting go isn’t losing…it’s loving with open hands.
