Earlier this month, I packed up my daughter’s house, where she lived for three years with her best friends from college, and drove a U-Haul over 700 miles to Chicago. We unloaded her furniture, unpacked boxes, set up her new space, and hugged goodbye. Then I headed to the airport for the long trip home without her.
I was bursting with pride: My 25-year-old had landed an internal transfer at her company, seized the opportunity to try out life in a brand-new city, and took a bold leap into adulthood.
But as soon as I left her, the other feeling hit just as hard: the ache of distance.
No one really prepares you for how much it hurts when your kids spread their wings — and when they don’t just fly, they fly far.
My son’s departure didn’t affect me too much
When my son graduated from college in May 2020, the world was still shut down. He had a job in New York City, but the pandemic delayed his move until February 2021. Those extra eight months at home were an unexpected blessing.
Instead of rushing off right after graduation, we got bonus dinners, family time together, and the kind of unplanned conversations you can’t schedule on FaceTime.
When he finally did move, it wasn’t so bad. New York is only a three-and-a-half-hour train ride away. I knew I could hop up for a weekend visit if I missed him too much. The distance was manageable — just far enough for him to be independent, but close enough to comfort me.
My daughter’s path was different
After graduating in 2022, my daughter lived nearby for three years. Even though we didn’t see each other every day — or even every week —just knowing she was only 30 minutes away felt like a safety net.
I could meet her for lunch, she could stop by for dinner, or we could go shopping together.
Now she’s a 10-plus-hour car ride or a plane ticket away. That “security blanket” of proximity is gone.
As I flew back from Chicago, I realized that this isn’t just about miles; it’s about a shift in how our family life looks and feels.
The paradox of pride and pain
I am incredibly close to both of my children, and I couldn’t be prouder of their independence. They’re thriving in competitive careers, taking risks, and courageously stepping into big cities. Watching them spread their wings fills me with joy.
But alongside that joy is grief. The paradox is real: You raise children to be independent, but when they actually become independent, your heart breaks a little.
I’ve come to realize that family transitions bring joy and sorrow, often at the same time.
Moving my daughter to Chicago reminded me that grief isn’t reserved for tragic losses. It shows up in everyday milestones, too: the empty chair at the dinner table, the absence of last-minute lunch dates, the knowledge that “just popping over” isn’t possible anymore.
And yet, the very reason it hurts is the reason I’m proud. My kids have the courage to leap into unknown cities because they know they always have a home to come back to. Their wings exist because of their roots.
So while I wrestle with the quiet house and the distance, I also celebrate the bigger picture: They’re doing exactly what we hoped they would, building lives of their own.
I’m slowly moving forward
I’m learning that the ache doesn’t go away, but it can coexist with pride. I can miss my children tremendously while also cheering them on from afar. Technology helps, of course; there are always daily texts, FaceTime calls, and even sending photos of what’s for dinner. But nothing truly replaces proximity.
What I hold onto is the anticipation of the next time together. The visits will be fewer, but hopefully sweeter. The hugs will last longer. And when they do come home, the roots will still be there, grounding us all in what is familiar.
For now, I’m sitting with both truths: my heart is full, and my heart hurts. That’s the paradox of parenting young adults, and maybe the most powerful lesson of all.
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