Fly, little one.

We are moving our daughter into her own place today.  She’s ready; she’s an amazing young woman who’s coped with a lot of change and done it beautifully.  She’ll be fine–she always has been.

 

I’m the one who’s a mess.

I hope none of us will look back on any of this with regret.  Will my daughter resent the way she was rather unceremoniously dumped out of the nest?  Will she be okay?  I’ve always prided myself on being a mother who gives her children wings and encourages them to fly.  But now that the last one is going, I feel uncharacteristically sentimental. And sad.  And fearful. And anxious.  I can’t tell if this is empty nest syndrome or my last sane brain cell speaking up and saying, “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?!?

I hope we’re doing the right thing.

But I have to trust that it is the right thing, otherwise we wouldn’t be doing it.  You know, in the sense that there are no wrong decisions.  This is the path we’re all on.  I have to trust that it’s the right thing, otherwise I sink into the swamp of “what if” and “shoulda coulda woulda”.

It’ll turn out to be the best possible outcome or it’ll turn out to be the reason she needs therapy when she’s older or it’ll turn out to be a great story and thank god we all survived that.  I’m getting caught up in the worry and fear and having trouble trusting.

Fortunately, there’s things in front of me to do.  So maybe my job today is just to put one foot in front of the other and let go of the outcome.  Since I can’t do anything about the outcome anyway.  I’m going to trust this process if it kills me.

If you don’t hear from me again, you know what happened.

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