As The Doors Open For Her

The tears haven’t come yet.

But every time I have a quiet moment—and thankfully, this week has been busy, so those moments have been few and far between—I find myself replaying little reels of my daughter’s childhood in my mind.

Her singing in her soft toddler voice in the car.

Making mud pies in the backyard.

Crafting with junk mail during what I lovingly refer to as her hoarder crafting phase.

Rocking her to sleep. The snuggles. The bedtime stories. The “hold me” moments.

And all of the ordinary little moments in between that I didn’t realize I would someday miss so much.

Now, as I think about her entering high school, I can feel my heart cracking a little.

I should have slowed down more when she was little.

I should have given her more of my time.

I should have soaked it all up.

No. Stop.

As one of my dear friends regularly reminds me, I need to stop “shoulding” on myself.

Because when I really sit with this feeling, I know where it comes from.

She has been my whole world.

I am far from the perfect mom. There are things I would do differently if I could go back. But I think one of the hardest parts of motherhood is that you never know when something is happening for the last time.

I didn’t know the last time I rocked her would be the last time.

I didn’t know which bedtime story would be the last one.

I didn’t know there would be a final “hold me.”

There was no warning. No little voice saying, Pay attention, Mom. This is the last one.

They just quietly stopped.

And now, as she walks into her first day of high school, I think I’m grieving all of those lasts a little bit.

And, yep. Writing that is apparently what finally brought the tears.

Because while I miss that little girl more than I can explain, I am so incredibly proud of the young woman standing in front of me now.

She is becoming a woman.

And I know that someday I won’t just have a daughter—I’ll have one of my closest people for the rest of my life.

But still, I miss the girl she once was.

Maybe that is one of the strange contradictions of motherhood. You can desperately miss who they were while being completely in awe of who they are becoming.

This is a new chapter for her.

But as the doors open for her, I’m realizing they open into a new chapter for me, too.

For so many years, I felt like her coach. I was teaching her the rules, showing her how to play, helping her get back up when she fell, and trying my best to prepare her for what was ahead.

Now I feel myself moving to the stands.

I’m still here. I’m still cheering. I’m still ready when she needs me.

But more and more, she’s the one playing the game.

And she is incredible to watch.

I watch her dodge and weave around negative influences. I watch her stay focused on the future she wants. I watch her line up her own shots and decide where she wants her life to go.

And I love it.

I love watching her grow into her independence.

I love that she is the shoulder her friends lean on.

I love her drive and curiosity for learning.

I love that she knows who she is and isn’t afraid to stand out.

I love when her friends gather around our table and pray before dinner.

I love hearing her jam out to her music.

And I love that, even as she gets older, she still comes to me with the good, the bad, and everything in between.

I know there will come a day when my house is quiet.

Someday, she may have a household full of chaos of her own. There may be kids running around, dinner cooking, laundry piling up, schedules to juggle, and a life that no longer revolves around this house.

But I hope my phone still rings.

I hope she still needs me.

And I hope that when I answer, somewhere underneath the voice of the grown woman she has become, I can still hear the voice of my sweet baby girl—even when she has babies of her own.

I hope she moves through the chapters of womanhood with more grace than I sometimes have.

Although, truthfully, she is already teaching me.

She is already one of my role models.

So maybe this chapter isn’t about losing my little girl.

Maybe it’s about learning how to love her differently.

To loosen my grip without letting go.

To trust the things I have spent all these years trying to teach her.

To stop coaching every play and become the mom in the stands—cheering for my star player as she takes her own shots, makes her own mistakes, finds her own way, and soars.

Her first day of high school is the beginning of a new chapter for her.

And, like so many chapters in a woman’s life, I’m realizing this one belongs to me, too.