To my daughter, my graduate~

As I just witnessed my last child’s graduation from college, I am left grieving the end of an era. No more parents' weekends, scheduling family trips around her school schedule, and no more stories of sorority and fraternity parties or tests and papers that brought her to tears. As sobering a reality as this is for me as a mom, I can’t imagine how it feels for her, and all graduates as they leave their identities of four years, only to head into the workforce and “real world” to create new identities. What does the grief look like of leaving the “known” of the past four years and venturing out into the “unknown?” How can they incorporate all their best parts into the next chapter of their lives?

This evolution of being is not new, but it is much more challenging with our world as it is today.

The weight of uncertainty looms larger now. The pressure to “have it all figured out” arrives swiftly after the cap is tossed in the air. There’s an expectation to move seamlessly from student to professional, from campus life to city life, from tight-knit friendships to long-distance texts. But life rarely follows that script. And grief, though not always named, often tags along.

I see it in my daughter’s eyes, how she holds onto memories from late-night chats with friends, study sessions that turned into therapy sessions, and a campus that once felt like her entire world. And I feel it in my chest, how letting go of this chapter means acknowledging that we, too, are changing. Her growing independence marks the beginning of a new rhythm between us. One where I must trust in the roots we’ve built while she reaches for the sky.

So, I write this for every graduate and every parent of one who is standing at this invisible threshold and wondering how to cross it with grace.

Let yourself grieve. Let yourself feel the joy, the sadness, the confusion, the pride. These emotions don’t cancel each other out; they sit beside each other, holding hands.

Let yourself be witnessed, not just in the achievements and polished résumés, but in the messy middle of becoming, when the job hasn’t come through yet, when the apartment is tiny, when you cry from missing people who once lived close by.

Let yourself remember that identity isn’t fixed. Who you were in college—the leader, the dreamer, the friend, the one who failed and got back up is still in you. You don’t lose those parts; you integrate them.

And most of all, let yourself trust. Trust that just as you figured out how to navigate those four years, you’ll find your footing in this next chapter, it won’t look the same, and that’s okay. Growth rarely does.

Be grateful for the incredible friendships you've cultivated along the way. Lean into that support; after all, we all need connection and community, and you're lucky if you have found your people.

As a mother, I will keep standing at the edge of this new beginning, cheering you on quietly, with love in my eyes and tears in my throat. Watching you go is hard, but watching you grow is beautiful.