Your college kid calls upset. You hear their voice on the phone. And you hear all the other voices in your head. The voices reminding you of how you’re supposed to respond. Let them vent. Let them share. Let them be. Let them fly. The voices in your head remind you this is their chance to grow. To learn. That’s it’s okay to hurt. That they will heal and come out stronger, wiser. As you listen, you hear it. You hear their hurt.
You hear their frustration. You hear their fear. And oh, do you feel it. You feel it so very deeply. And you want to give them advice. You really do.
Because you see the path to feeling better. Faster. Easier. With so much less pain. But you know that easing their pain today, right now, can just create more pain in the future. You know that letting them figure things out now, even though it hurts, might actually help them hurt less later. And so you bite your tongue. And you fight like heck to hide your own pain. To sound confident in their ability to figure things out.
To not sound concerned. And you struggle right along with them because this is not easy. In the moment, their pain is your pain. You hurt with them. Oh, do you ever. And you worry right alongside them.
But you don’t offer advice. And you don’t ask leading questions. And you don’t dig for more hard stuff. You offer love. You offer a soft landing place. You offer “uh huhs” and “oh, that’s hard” and “I’m here for you.” And then you offer to make homemade chocolate chip cookies even though you simply do not have the time.
Because that is all you can do to make them actually feel better. And then you think, not to them or of them, but to yourself: Who is making me chocolate chip cookies to help me feel better? Because this stage of parenting? Honestly? It can be brutal. He is okay, to be clear. This wasn’t a crisis. Just one of those tough, emotional, figure-it-out moments that comes with being away at college. Having our college-aged kids, especially our freshmen, far away from us, struggling, and not knowing which adults in their life are there to support them, guide them, help them find the answers they need? B.R.U.T.A.L. The letting go here is an incredible act of strength.
Of course I will lean in when I have to. But I will also let my kiddo fumble a little. I have to. It is part of this stage. This journey. His journey. And also? My kiddo wants to. He is in his independent era. We have returned to the “I do” phase. Except now it’s a more complete sentence, not that of a toddler. It’s: “I got it, Mom.” I know you do, kiddo. I know you do.
He sent me this text last night: “Good night. Love you. Thanks for the support (even though I keep denying I need it or want it. When I’m ready I’ll ask for it. Let me know when the cookies are coming.)” Ooof. That hit hard and heavy in a wonderful way. That’s the whole ache of this stage. Being needed in a whole new way. A quieter way. A farther away way. Not to fix. Not to solve. Just to stay close enough that they know you’re still there. Sending my warmth and a little oomph to you all this Monday morning.
You are all loved and appreciated, near and far.
xoxo, Sheila
🧡 The Orange Rhino
