The only thing you can count on is change. It is a constant. No one can stop it. Seasons change and time marches on. Children grow and move out leaving you to fill in the gaps and spaces they leave behind.
As I watch my son pack up his life’s treasures and belongings into the back of his Honda CRV I can’t stop the tears welling up in my eyes. Just yesterday he was my 5lb 2oz baby boy and today he is a broad shouldered, strong young man. There is an unmistakable twinkle in Caleb’s bright blue eyes and a lightness in his barefoot steps. He is ready for independence and freedom. Itching to get out there and find out who he is and what he is made of.
My motherly instinct is to grab him and wrap him in a tight embrace, protect him from the harsh world he is about to hurl himself into. I want to warn him of all that could go wrong. I want to shield him and myself from the disappointments and hardships he will face. But I must let him go. I must encourage him and wish him well despite my fears and anxieties. They are mine to bear, not his. This is his moment to fly.
I help him pack, load and unload. I stop at the store in between loads to buy him a few things I know he will need. I pad his boxes with extra rolls of paper towels and toilet paper. I beef up his kitchen supplies with duplicates from my kitchen and some new pieces. I hold back my strong desire to begin organizing his apartment the way I know it should be. Instead I pile the boxes up in the empty rooms making passing comments and suggestions about where things could go.
At the end of the day my son is moved into his apartment. I hug him goodbye.
The only thing you can count on is change. It’s constant. No one can stop it. Seasons shift, time marches on, children grow and move out, leaving you to fill the quiet spaces they leave behind.
As I watch my son pack his life into the back of his Honda CRV, tears well up. Just yesterday he was my five-pound, two-ounce baby boy; today he’s a broad-shouldered young man. There’s a twinkle in Caleb’s bright blue eyes and a lightness in his barefoot steps. He’s ready—aching for independence, eager to find out who he is and what he’s made of.
My mother’s instinct is to grab him, hold him tight, and protect him from the world he’s hurling himself into. I want to warn him of everything that could go wrong, shield him from disappointment and heartbreak. But I can’t. I must let him go, encourage him, and wish him well despite my fears. Those fears are mine to bear, not his. This is his time to fly.
I help him pack, load, and unload. Between trips, I stop at the store for things I know he’ll need. I pad his boxes with extra paper towels and toilet paper, beef up his kitchen with duplicates from mine. I resist the urge to start organizing his apartment the way I think it should be. Instead, I stack the boxes, offering only small suggestions about where things might go.
By the end of the day, he’s moved in. I hug him goodbye.
“I love you so much, Caleb. If you need anything—anything at all…”
“I know, Mom.” He hugs me back. “Thank you. I love you, too.”
I cry all the way home.
Change is here. It always is. I can’t stop it—only learn to let it carry me forward.
Come hang out with me on I’m Healing Out Loud—my Substack home where memoir meets midlife mayhem, queer joy, grief, guts, and gym sweat. You’ll get the real, the raw, and the occasionally ridiculous—plus behind-the-scenes peeks, poetry, and my favorite kind of rebellion: healing in public.
Subscribe free (or become a founding badass). Your story matters. Let’s write through it, together.
