When Letting Go Hurts: A Parent’s Story of College Drop-Off and the Quiet Drive Home.

When Your Heart Moves Into a Campus Apartment

A reflection on sending your child off to college and the quiet ache that follows

I knew I’d be sad. What I did not expect was the amount of grief.

Not the kind that comes with loss of life, but what kind that sneaks in when a chapter closes and you realize you will never read it the same way again. The kind that makes you question: Did I prepare her enough? Did I live in the moment enough? Was I there when she needed me? Could I have done more?

It’s wild how those questions show up, not as judgment, but as longing. A longing to stretch time, to rewind the tape, to linger in the ordinary moments that suddenly feel sacred.

This year, there were no sunshine pancakes on the first day of school. That ritual, our little tradition that we started on her first day of kindergarten, it embraced me with such force that it took my breath away. I stood in my kitchen, knowing she would not be coming down the hallway, sleepy-eyed and backpack-ready. Instead, it was just me that morning. And the ache.

Grief showed up in places I didn’t expect. In the grocery store line behind a young mom with a toddler in her cart. In the driveway, seeing her car parked like she was home, even though I knew she wasn’t. For a split second, I let myself believe it was just a dream. That moment gutted me.

As a therapist, I tried my own coping tools. Some worked. Some didn’t. I moved through my “toolbox” like I was trying keys in a lock. And sometimes, the only thing that helped me was sitting with the feeling. Not fixing it. Not reframing it. Just letting it be. (And wow. That’s hard.)

I found myself whispering things I say to clients: It’s good to feel more than one emotion. I was deeply sad and wildly proud. I was grieving and grateful. I was undone and anchored. All at once.

And then there is the generational weight, the part that is harder to name but impossible to ignore. My daughter isn’t just my oldest. She’s the oldest grandchild. The first to leave home. The first to step into this new chapter. And with that comes a kind of quiet responsibility. She is the blueprint, whether she asked to be or not.

But now, it’s my turn to trust. To trust the parenting that shaped her. To trust the young woman who’s coming into herself with courage and curiosity. I know she’ll make mistakes, because that’s what young adulthood is for. It’s messy and beautiful and full of lessons that no one else can live for her.

My role is shifting. I’m no longer the guardrail, I am the soft landing. The place she can return to when life scrapes her knees. The voice that reminds her she’s still whole, even when things fall apart. I’ll be here to help her tend to the wounds that life throws her way, not to fix them, but to sit beside her while she heals.

This isn't just her launch. It’s my release, too.

And maybe that’s the quiet truth of parenting through transitions: we are not just raising children, we are learning how to let go with love. As a therapist, I talk often about emotional safety, about tending wounds with care and not urgency. As a mother, I am living it, and it’s heart-wrenching!

There’s a particular ache that comes with watching your child step into the world. It’s not grief exactly; it is something more tender, more complex. It’s the beauty of seeing her become, and the pain of knowing you can’t shield her from what becoming requires. It’s pride and fear and love, all tangled up in the same breath.

My daughter will find her way. I’ll be here, steady and soft for moments when she needs to come home to herself. I’ll be the quiet place she lands, the hands that help her tend to the wounds life throws her way. Not to fix, but to witness. Not to steer, but to stay close.

She’s running her race now. I now have the privilege of watching, cheering, and still being her biggest fan.