This past year, my now 22-year-old daughter graduated from college, moved out, and (in not so many words) told me she was fine on her own; thank you very much.
Of course, we all want our kids to fly the nest. We pray that they are strong, independent, and self-sufficient. Mine is all of the above and more; I marvel at her strength, determination, and resiliency — not to mention her ability to navigate the New York City subway system.
Still, my worry when she was a child and prone to skinned knees is nothing compared to how much I worry today.
I jump to worst-case scenarios
My mind imagines only the worst-case scenarios whenever she fails to answer a call or text. I send her cautionary news on Instagram and cringe when she and her boyfriend fly at odd hours into odd airports, seemingly to save money but also to give me a bleeding ulcer.
As she outlines their trip to Iceland, I bite my tongue and zone out somewhere between “climbing glaciers” and “exploring ice caves.” For her 21st birthday, she went skydiving. I called my therapist, begging for her to prescribe me Valium. Instead, we agreed it was OK if I simply did some day drinking until I heard that she was back on solid ground. Did I mention she also recently scaled the side of a skyscraper and went axe-throwing?
I know my born-and-bred New York offspring has street smarts and can balance her own checkbook. Another bit of reassurance I have is that her boyfriend is skilled in martial arts and would hurl himself in front of a Marvel villain to protect her.
I just need to trust that she will Google what she doesn’t know if she won’t ask me. But resisting the urge to interfere takes nerves of steel. I freak out or offer advice a bit too emphatically: “No! You can’t eat week-old salmon! No! You can’t microwave tin foil! Yes! You need to wash your sheets once a week!” I weigh in when not asked for my viewpoint — it’s a force of habit.
I have to let her grow
I know her better than she knows herself. I know what items she would order on a menu, what shoes would go with that dress, and what Netflix shows she would love. I want to spare her the pain of making mistakes and missing out, but I realize that will not allow her to grow.
So, instead, I resort to sending my suggestions in texts or DMs — that way, she can ignore them if she chooses. But I secretly rejoice every time she responds or “hearts” one. I feel appreciated and acknowledged as a member of her inner circle, though I am clearly on the outside looking in. To be left “unopened” is brutal, a crushing blow to my mom heart. But I know I need to get over it — or at least pretend not to be hurt.
My husband is much more hands-off, saying things like, “If she misses her flight because she leaves only an hour to get to the airport, she’ll learn.” But will she? Will she actually self-correct without me there to whisper in her ear? When, of course, she does, part of me wants to jump for joy, while the other part is a little sad. Does that mean I’m no longer needed?
As empty nesters, this next part of parenthood is tricky and treacherous. I feel a little bit like nearly-expired milk pushed to the back of the supermarket shelf. But I know this is how it’s supposed to go. You raise them to let them go.
All of this is new and scary and fraught with emotion (and often, tears), not unlike her baby and toddler years. Sometimes, my heart aches like someone has torn a piece out of it. But I have adjusted these past 12 months, trying to give my daughter space and grace and myself the same. Like my now all-grown-up child, I will find my strength and balance — one small baby step at a time.
The post My daughter moved out for the first time. As a new empty nester, I’m struggling more with the transition than she is. appeared first on Business Insider.
