It is done.
Two weeks ago, my 19 yo daughter buckled into her little pick-up, furniture strapped down in the truck bed, the cab packed with her most precious belongings–mostly instruments and stereo equipment–and said goodbye to her tearful father before pulling away and making the 8 hour journey to the city where she’s now living.
I left early the next day with our minivan loaded to the brim with what would fit (she’s planning to retrieve the few remaining items when she makes her first visit; hopefully sometime this summer) and followed her. When I arrived in town, I went directly to the cute little house she’s renting with two other young females. She and I unloaded the van, and I offered to help unpack and set things up but she declined, promising to reach out later that evening. We ended up not seeing each other again that day, but she was gracious and clearly taking care to be mindful of my feelings. When I’d seen her earlier, she expressed exhaustion and I could tell she was out of sorts. I would guess she was experiencing some self-consciousness in her new surroundings with a new roommate whom she just met earlier this spring. My heart was torn between compassion for her nervousness and uncertainty, and the pride and deep love I felt as I watched her navigate her new world, knowing her capacity to figure it all out and settle in, wondering what challenges will present themselves as she takes these initial bold steps into adulthood; I recalled my own bold move, 1000 miles from my family, when I was about the same age, and the panic that set in when I realized what I’d done!