There’s a funny thing about growing up together. People assume it only happens to children, but the truth is that we’ve all been growing side by side. Each of you has been finding your voice, your confidence, and your values. And even the smallest things – like when your playlists drift through the car and I hear songs I once listened to in high school – make me smile. They remind me that while you’re becoming your own person, pieces of me live in you, too.
And at the same time, I’ve grown into a version of myself I never expected to meet. Someone who learned to fight for healing, for family, for stability, for second chances, and for the kind of future I want for all of you.
As you’ve conquered hard things, I’ve been quietly conquering mine. As I’ve watched each of you bloom, I’ve watched myself bloom, too.
While you’ve been growing into young adults, I’ve been growing, too. I’ve struggled with relationships—some I stayed in out of obligation, some I stepped away from with shaking hands, and some I wish I could have back. I’ve made mistakes. I’ve learned more than I ever wanted to about my wounds, my patterns, and my capacity to start again.
And through all of it, I’ve still been learning how to be your mom.
I’ve said before—half-joking and half-afraid—that I worry one day you’ll marry, move on, and drift away. I’ve seen it happen so often. And in my own family, I’ve watched my brothers step away completely. For a long time, that made me angry. I couldn’t understand how someone could walk away from the people who raised them, loved them, and tried their best.
But now that anger has turned into something quieter and heavier: fear.
Because when I whisper, Please don’t let that be us, I’m not saying it to guilt you. I’m saying it because I know the ache of losing connection, and I never want that with you.
But love cannot be built on fear.
I can ask you to stay close, or I can become the kind of mother you feel safe staying close to. And that… that is the harder work.
Recently, I’ve been learning about the rhythm of parenting that continues long after childhood ends: attachment, detachment, and connection.
Attachment is the beginning—the normal kind of small-child parenting where you cling to me and I cling right back, where you learn safety, trust, comfort, and love by being close.
Detachment comes later—the letting go, the part where you begin to grow and make mistakes apart from me, where you learn to stand on your own two feet and I learn not to hover, not to rescue, not to control. Detachment is so hard. I don’t want you to hurt. I don’t want life to bruise you or confuse you or break your heart. Every instinct in me wants to protect you from the world. But I know now that making mistakes is necessary. It’s how you learn. It’s how you grow. And it’s how I learn, too—to trust the adults you are becoming.
And connection is the reward—the relationship with my adult children that comes only when the first two steps were done with care. It’s the kind of bond you choose to maintain because you feel safe, respected, and free to be who you are.
That is what I want with you.
Not forced closeness.
Not obligatory phone calls.
Not relationships built on guilt or fear.
I want real connection—the kind that lasts because you want it to… not because you have to.
So I want you to know this:
I am trying. I truly am.
When I mess up, tell me.
When I overstep, tell me.
When I misunderstand you, tell me.
I promise to listen. I promise to apologize. I promise not to become the kind of parent who demands without giving.
You also all need you to hear this clearly: Finding your path takes time. Sometimes it takes years. Sometimes it takes decades.
It took me nearly 40 years to discover the right calling, the right purpose, the right direction.
There is no shame in searching.
What matters is that you keep taking steps and knowing that you don’t have to take them alone.
All three of you need to know:
This is your life.
Your careers.
Your families.
Your futures.
We are learning how to let go now (your father is doing better than me), not because I want distance, but because I want closeness that lasts.
I know you don’t love the idea that after the last of you head off to college, we’ll move. It feels like the house won’t be “home” anymore. But part of this shift is for you, too. I need to detach in ways that let you build your own lives without feeling pulled, stretched, or responsible for mine.
And listen—when we retire, you will always have a place with us. Any of you. All of you. Bring your spouses, your kids… all of it. But by then, you’ll be deep in your adult lives, juggling work and limited PTO. So, we will come to you, if you’ll have us. We won’t repeat the mistakes of past generations, demanding so much while offering so little.
I want to be the kind of mother you feel safe coming home to. Not one you feel obligated to maintain. Not one who holds too tightly, but one who cheers you on, lets you grow, and still loves you fiercely from whatever distance adulthood requires.
This is my letter to you—the beginning of a lifetime promise I intend to keep.
We’re all still growing.
And I am so grateful I get to grow beside you.
Love always,
Mom
