"It’s staying present in the pause—the emotional middle—without needing to close it." This line is pure gold. It speaks to a deep, often uncomfortable truth about true strength. We're so conditioned to seek closure, to fix, to manage, to have answers. But you highlight the profound courage it takes to simply be in the uncertainty, to allow an experience to be "real and unedited."
This isn't about passive acceptance; it's an active, deliberate choice to remain fully present, even when every fiber of our being wants to flee or control. It's a willingness to witness the messiness without flinching, believing that this unwavering presence is the ultimate proof of the bond's strength. This kind of courage is a muscle, one that requires consistent practice and a deep trust in the resilience of connection.
Wow—thank you for this, my friend. As always, you put language to the very heart of what I was reaching for. It’s anything but passive. Sometimes it takes everything we’ve got to stay open in that emotional middle—and an enormous amount of courage and practice. I’m so grateful you saw that and reflected it back with such clarity.
This took my breath away a little. My almost 12 year old girl is outwardly crying and saying she is afraid of the future and of 'us' not always being right there. I of course reassured her that preparing her for the world is for me to worry about, not her, and she doesn't need to go anywhere until she is ready, but I suspect I wasn't patient enough because we've been looping a bit and I'm tiring of the tears out of nowhere. The analogy of anchor and not rope will serve as a reminder in these moments going forward and this entire article is a needed reminder that I should be proud of her for recognising and naming the feeling, and of us for creating the environment, example and safety for her to be able to that. Embarrassingly I wasn't feeling positively about it at all.
Oh, I get this. The looping, the sudden tears, the ache of wanting to meet it well but feeling worn thin—it’s so real. And yet, you’re right: the fact that she can say it out loud means something’s working. I’m glad the anchor image landed. It’s one I’ve been holding onto, too. 🧡
Erin, thank you for this beautiful and tender piece. It resonated so deeply with me.
My daughter is only three, but your words transported me forward and backward at once. I still remember those first few months when we started daycare, how she cried every morning at drop-off, and how I sat at home, working remotely but thinking only of her. Was she still crying? Was it getting better? I often drove by her daycare between meetings, just to peek through the window. Her crying broke my heart in places I didn’t know existed.
“Can I grow without losing you?” This is such a powerful line! It landed like a quiet truth I hadn’t fully named before. I think that’s the question our children are always asking, in one way or another. And maybe… it’s not just their question. It’s ours too. Can we let them grow without losing what we’ve built? Without losing some part of ourselves?
Your piece reminded me that parenting is a long series of gentle separations, ach one stretching the bond, testing its strength, but never breaking it if we stay steady. Just as you said, it’s not about holding on tighter, but holding steady. That’s what I hope to keep doing as my daughter grows: to be her anchor, not her rope.
Thank you for putting such beautiful, honest words to something so many of us feel but don’t always know how to name. You’ve made space for both the ache and the hope, and I’ll be holding this piece close through many transitions to come.
Your words are such a gift, Kunlun—thank you for taking the time to share them so thoughtfully. That image of you driving by to peek through the daycare window says so much—about tenderness, about the ache of separation, and about how fiercely we love. I’m deeply moved that this piece spoke to both the now and the not-yet in your parenting journey. You named something so true: that this question—“Can I grow without losing you?”—belongs to both of us. And the fact that you’re already asking it, already holding steady in those early stretches, tells me you’re offering your daughter exactly what she needs. I’ll be carrying your reflection with me, too.
Thank you so much for your generous words, Erin. It means a great deal coming from you and from the very heart of the piece that moved me so deeply.
“Can I grow without losing you?” truly echoed in both directions for me: as a parent watching my little one take her first steps into the world, and as a child still holding threads of connection to my own parents. You gave that ache a name. And somehow, naming it made it feel less lonely.
That image of me peeking through the daycare window still makes me smile a little now, though back then, it was anything but funny. It was such a raw moment of tenderness and helplessness all tangled together. I’m grateful you saw it for what it was: a quiet expression of how fiercely we love, even when we can’t always find the words.
Your piece didn’t just speak to my now. It gently prepared me for the not yet. And that is a rare and powerful kind of writing. Thank you again for holding space for these conversations, and for offering words that stay with us, long after the last sentence.
Oh, Carrie—that last preschool drop-off hits harder than we expect, doesn’t it? I’m so glad the piece met you in that tender moment. You’re in it, fully—and that matters. I'm cheering you on as you step into this next stretch. 🧡
This is a gorgeous post. So much wisdom beautifully articulated. Reminds me of how I sang to my son at bedtime every night for 14 years, the ritual only ending when he started staying up later than me. But then the night he graduated from high school, and before he was heading out on a road trip with his friends, the ritual returned for a grand finale. He still wanted (needed?) that safe space, to know it was still there.
What a beautiful full-circle moment. It says so much about how our kids carry those rituals with them, even when they outgrow the form of them. The fact that he returned to it, on his own terms, speaks volumes about the safety and steadiness you built. Thank you for sharing this, Matt—such a moving reminder that what we offer early on doesn’t disappear…it waits, quietly, until it’s needed again.
My mom passed away recently. And your daughter's sentiments apply perfectly here too:
“It’s not that I don’t want [you] to go. (My mom was old and had suffered with dementia for a few years. I wanted her to be at peace and not suffer any longer.) I just don’t want [you] to leave.”
I've been reflecting on all the ways my mom let me down over the years, and all the ways I let her down. We are humans, after all, and at this point in our collective evolution, humans hurt each other. But these bonds we built will last long past her lifetime. Thank you for the excellent reminder and insight into how the bonds can stretch and grow and to trust ourselves, our children and the process that creates the bonds.
I hadn't thought of this perspective, but you're so right: the truth of this holds weight far beyond the context of parenting. It speaks to the complexity of all our most foundational relationships. The honesty in your words—the pain, the grace, the stretch of the bond even through imperfection—is profound. I’m so grateful you shared here. Wishing you continued peace as you hold both the ache and the connection.
This spoke to me as an immigrant and a daughter. I'm in my 40s and my parents live in my home country. This article articulated what i myself have felt but you expressed it so beautifully. My parents are 2 very different personalities. One is the person who will push you forward and the other is the one who will want to fold you in their arms. So, as a result i've felt that Ive grown APART from them as I've built a life here. Your words helped soothe a part of me that needed to be seen. The thing that has been missing from my relationship with my parents. Intellectually i know they are there but there's been rupture without repair. I will be sending this article to them to read. And i hope this will help us have a conversation we have been avoiding for decades. Thank you for your words.
Thank you so much for this deeply thoughtful reflection. That push-and-pull between growing a life of your own and staying connected to where you came from—it’s so real. It means more than I can express to know this piece gave shape to something you’ve been carrying. I’ll be thinking of you as you share it with your parents and step into that long-held conversation. That kind of honesty takes enormous courage. 🧡
I started preparing myself for the time when my daughter would leave home when she was 12. I instinctively knew that it would take me half a dozen years to get used to the idea and that I had to begin to let her go gradually, mindfully, prepare us both. I'm glad I did.
Powerful stuff Erin. I love hearing your wisdom come through your daughters’ words. Feeling comfortable enough to share while also being wise enough to reflect and do so authentically. Beautiful
This is really beautiful. I'm in the early stages of parenthood - my 3 year old is in a phase of extreme separation anxiety at bedtime, but fierce independence in all other areas of her life. I think it's so true that parenthood is balancing the dichotomy. It seems the context changes as they grow, but the themes are often the same!
Yes—exactly. The context shifts, the behaviors evolve, but the emotional themes stay surprisingly constant. And that push-pull of “I need you” and “I can do it myself” is so real—what appears as a contradiction is actually development.
My 19 year old told me yesterday that she doesn’t want to live in this country, she plans on moving to England, Italy or Spain…after 4 years of extreme mental health issues I am so happy to hear her talking about the future but also completely heartbroken at the idea of not seeing her every day 💜 parenting is a rollercoaster 😊
This captures the heart of it so honestly—that deep, aching mix of pride and heartbreak. I can imagine that after all she’s been through, hearing her speak about a future and dream boldly is such a hard-won milestone. And at the same time, the thought of her being far away feels like another kind of loss. That’s the paradox of parenting at its peak: being overjoyed at their becoming, while quietly grieving what’s no longer ours in the same way. And it's so true—parenting often feels like a rollercoaster. And the fact that you can hold both the joy and the ache at once says so much about your love for her. Thank you for sharing this moment—it’s both brave and beautiful. 🧡
This is so beautiful. Thank you Erin. As my teenage twin daughters enter their sophomore year of high school so many of the descriptions and essence of what you wrote are front and center for me.
Someone said recently when your kids emerge into late teenage years, we parents need to “be the side of the pool.” They will swim out on their own into the waters of life, and we can’t be there with them but they will need to, and want to come back and “hang on to us”. We need to be that stable, always there, side of the pool, for them to hang onto for as long as they need before venturing out again. And again.
What a beautiful image, James—*the side of the pool*. That captures it so perfectly. We don’t swim for them. We don’t chase after. But we *hold steady*, offering something solid when the waters get choppy or they just need a breath. That’s exactly the kind of presence I was trying to put words to here. Thank you for sharing that—and for reflecting this moment with such clarity. Sophomore year holds so much, and your daughters are lucky to have a parent who sees the emotional layers as clearly as you do. 🧡
That means more than I can express, James—thank you. Knowing this piece is contributing something meaningful to your experience is both humbling and motivating.
Your generosity toward me over the past year has meant so much—and is deeply appreciated.
"It’s staying present in the pause—the emotional middle—without needing to close it." This line is pure gold. It speaks to a deep, often uncomfortable truth about true strength. We're so conditioned to seek closure, to fix, to manage, to have answers. But you highlight the profound courage it takes to simply be in the uncertainty, to allow an experience to be "real and unedited."
This isn't about passive acceptance; it's an active, deliberate choice to remain fully present, even when every fiber of our being wants to flee or control. It's a willingness to witness the messiness without flinching, believing that this unwavering presence is the ultimate proof of the bond's strength. This kind of courage is a muscle, one that requires consistent practice and a deep trust in the resilience of connection.
Wow—thank you for this, my friend. As always, you put language to the very heart of what I was reaching for. It’s anything but passive. Sometimes it takes everything we’ve got to stay open in that emotional middle—and an enormous amount of courage and practice. I’m so grateful you saw that and reflected it back with such clarity.
This took my breath away a little. My almost 12 year old girl is outwardly crying and saying she is afraid of the future and of 'us' not always being right there. I of course reassured her that preparing her for the world is for me to worry about, not her, and she doesn't need to go anywhere until she is ready, but I suspect I wasn't patient enough because we've been looping a bit and I'm tiring of the tears out of nowhere. The analogy of anchor and not rope will serve as a reminder in these moments going forward and this entire article is a needed reminder that I should be proud of her for recognising and naming the feeling, and of us for creating the environment, example and safety for her to be able to that. Embarrassingly I wasn't feeling positively about it at all.
Oh, I get this. The looping, the sudden tears, the ache of wanting to meet it well but feeling worn thin—it’s so real. And yet, you’re right: the fact that she can say it out loud means something’s working. I’m glad the anchor image landed. It’s one I’ve been holding onto, too. 🧡
Erin, thank you for this beautiful and tender piece. It resonated so deeply with me.
My daughter is only three, but your words transported me forward and backward at once. I still remember those first few months when we started daycare, how she cried every morning at drop-off, and how I sat at home, working remotely but thinking only of her. Was she still crying? Was it getting better? I often drove by her daycare between meetings, just to peek through the window. Her crying broke my heart in places I didn’t know existed.
“Can I grow without losing you?” This is such a powerful line! It landed like a quiet truth I hadn’t fully named before. I think that’s the question our children are always asking, in one way or another. And maybe… it’s not just their question. It’s ours too. Can we let them grow without losing what we’ve built? Without losing some part of ourselves?
Your piece reminded me that parenting is a long series of gentle separations, ach one stretching the bond, testing its strength, but never breaking it if we stay steady. Just as you said, it’s not about holding on tighter, but holding steady. That’s what I hope to keep doing as my daughter grows: to be her anchor, not her rope.
Thank you for putting such beautiful, honest words to something so many of us feel but don’t always know how to name. You’ve made space for both the ache and the hope, and I’ll be holding this piece close through many transitions to come.
Your words are such a gift, Kunlun—thank you for taking the time to share them so thoughtfully. That image of you driving by to peek through the daycare window says so much—about tenderness, about the ache of separation, and about how fiercely we love. I’m deeply moved that this piece spoke to both the now and the not-yet in your parenting journey. You named something so true: that this question—“Can I grow without losing you?”—belongs to both of us. And the fact that you’re already asking it, already holding steady in those early stretches, tells me you’re offering your daughter exactly what she needs. I’ll be carrying your reflection with me, too.
Thank you so much for your generous words, Erin. It means a great deal coming from you and from the very heart of the piece that moved me so deeply.
“Can I grow without losing you?” truly echoed in both directions for me: as a parent watching my little one take her first steps into the world, and as a child still holding threads of connection to my own parents. You gave that ache a name. And somehow, naming it made it feel less lonely.
That image of me peeking through the daycare window still makes me smile a little now, though back then, it was anything but funny. It was such a raw moment of tenderness and helplessness all tangled together. I’m grateful you saw it for what it was: a quiet expression of how fiercely we love, even when we can’t always find the words.
Your piece didn’t just speak to my now. It gently prepared me for the not yet. And that is a rare and powerful kind of writing. Thank you again for holding space for these conversations, and for offering words that stay with us, long after the last sentence.
As someone who just did her last preschool drop off and left in full-blown tears, this read is exactly what I needed. Thanks as always, Erin!
Oh, Carrie—that last preschool drop-off hits harder than we expect, doesn’t it? I’m so glad the piece met you in that tender moment. You’re in it, fully—and that matters. I'm cheering you on as you step into this next stretch. 🧡
This is a gorgeous post. So much wisdom beautifully articulated. Reminds me of how I sang to my son at bedtime every night for 14 years, the ritual only ending when he started staying up later than me. But then the night he graduated from high school, and before he was heading out on a road trip with his friends, the ritual returned for a grand finale. He still wanted (needed?) that safe space, to know it was still there.
What a beautiful full-circle moment. It says so much about how our kids carry those rituals with them, even when they outgrow the form of them. The fact that he returned to it, on his own terms, speaks volumes about the safety and steadiness you built. Thank you for sharing this, Matt—such a moving reminder that what we offer early on doesn’t disappear…it waits, quietly, until it’s needed again.
My mom passed away recently. And your daughter's sentiments apply perfectly here too:
“It’s not that I don’t want [you] to go. (My mom was old and had suffered with dementia for a few years. I wanted her to be at peace and not suffer any longer.) I just don’t want [you] to leave.”
I've been reflecting on all the ways my mom let me down over the years, and all the ways I let her down. We are humans, after all, and at this point in our collective evolution, humans hurt each other. But these bonds we built will last long past her lifetime. Thank you for the excellent reminder and insight into how the bonds can stretch and grow and to trust ourselves, our children and the process that creates the bonds.
I hadn't thought of this perspective, but you're so right: the truth of this holds weight far beyond the context of parenting. It speaks to the complexity of all our most foundational relationships. The honesty in your words—the pain, the grace, the stretch of the bond even through imperfection—is profound. I’m so grateful you shared here. Wishing you continued peace as you hold both the ache and the connection.
This spoke to me as an immigrant and a daughter. I'm in my 40s and my parents live in my home country. This article articulated what i myself have felt but you expressed it so beautifully. My parents are 2 very different personalities. One is the person who will push you forward and the other is the one who will want to fold you in their arms. So, as a result i've felt that Ive grown APART from them as I've built a life here. Your words helped soothe a part of me that needed to be seen. The thing that has been missing from my relationship with my parents. Intellectually i know they are there but there's been rupture without repair. I will be sending this article to them to read. And i hope this will help us have a conversation we have been avoiding for decades. Thank you for your words.
Thank you so much for this deeply thoughtful reflection. That push-and-pull between growing a life of your own and staying connected to where you came from—it’s so real. It means more than I can express to know this piece gave shape to something you’ve been carrying. I’ll be thinking of you as you share it with your parents and step into that long-held conversation. That kind of honesty takes enormous courage. 🧡
Thank you. The insights you shared in this article are also expressed in this song: https://youtu.be/pdOIHNF2vJc?si=qsC_MmGHck8Hn5_s
"I wanna move out. I dont wanna move on."
I started preparing myself for the time when my daughter would leave home when she was 12. I instinctively knew that it would take me half a dozen years to get used to the idea and that I had to begin to let her go gradually, mindfully, prepare us both. I'm glad I did.
I love this post, thank you for sharing it.
Powerful stuff Erin. I love hearing your wisdom come through your daughters’ words. Feeling comfortable enough to share while also being wise enough to reflect and do so authentically. Beautiful
Thank you, my friend. I appreciate you. 🧡
This is really beautiful. I'm in the early stages of parenthood - my 3 year old is in a phase of extreme separation anxiety at bedtime, but fierce independence in all other areas of her life. I think it's so true that parenthood is balancing the dichotomy. It seems the context changes as they grow, but the themes are often the same!
Yes—exactly. The context shifts, the behaviors evolve, but the emotional themes stay surprisingly constant. And that push-pull of “I need you” and “I can do it myself” is so real—what appears as a contradiction is actually development.
So beautiful, Erin! Thank you. 🙏 💖
Thank you, Sabrina. 🧡
My 19 year old told me yesterday that she doesn’t want to live in this country, she plans on moving to England, Italy or Spain…after 4 years of extreme mental health issues I am so happy to hear her talking about the future but also completely heartbroken at the idea of not seeing her every day 💜 parenting is a rollercoaster 😊
This captures the heart of it so honestly—that deep, aching mix of pride and heartbreak. I can imagine that after all she’s been through, hearing her speak about a future and dream boldly is such a hard-won milestone. And at the same time, the thought of her being far away feels like another kind of loss. That’s the paradox of parenting at its peak: being overjoyed at their becoming, while quietly grieving what’s no longer ours in the same way. And it's so true—parenting often feels like a rollercoaster. And the fact that you can hold both the joy and the ache at once says so much about your love for her. Thank you for sharing this moment—it’s both brave and beautiful. 🧡
“It’s not that I don’t want to go. I just don’t want to leave.” My daughter twenty-four years ago. Very moving. Thanks
Thank you, Carll. What a powerful echo of the same truth—twenty-four years ago, and it still resonates.
This is so beautiful. Thank you Erin. As my teenage twin daughters enter their sophomore year of high school so many of the descriptions and essence of what you wrote are front and center for me.
Someone said recently when your kids emerge into late teenage years, we parents need to “be the side of the pool.” They will swim out on their own into the waters of life, and we can’t be there with them but they will need to, and want to come back and “hang on to us”. We need to be that stable, always there, side of the pool, for them to hang onto for as long as they need before venturing out again. And again.
🙏❤️
What a beautiful image, James—*the side of the pool*. That captures it so perfectly. We don’t swim for them. We don’t chase after. But we *hold steady*, offering something solid when the waters get choppy or they just need a breath. That’s exactly the kind of presence I was trying to put words to here. Thank you for sharing that—and for reflecting this moment with such clarity. Sophomore year holds so much, and your daughters are lucky to have a parent who sees the emotional layers as clearly as you do. 🧡
Erin - you're welcome - the presence you put words to is exquisite. I reread your essay again and it is such a contribution to me (and to others).
That means more than I can express, James—thank you. Knowing this piece is contributing something meaningful to your experience is both humbling and motivating.
Your generosity toward me over the past year has meant so much—and is deeply appreciated.