I watched my big kid hug her dad as she left. One of those hugs you barely register in the moment. A quick squeeze. A goodbye. An easy “love you.” Just an ordinary leaving on an ordinary day.
Not long after, my phone rang, and I barely recognized her voice. Fear had found her. Something had gone wrong. She couldn’t see clearly where she was headed, didn’t know what to do, and panic threaded every shaky breath.
“Mom, I’m scared.”
My heart cracked wide open.
Isn’t this the strange work of motherhood? Watching them stretch their wings, and then becoming the net when the air turns rough?
I stayed with her, every second stretched thin. I kept my voice steady, even as my hands trembled and tears pressed behind my eyes. I reminded her to breathe. To slow down. To trust herself. I listened as fear rose and fell, as she moved forward moment by moment.
“I’m here,” I told her. “You’ve got this.”
When she was finally safe, the relief washed over me. But so did the gratitude.
She still calls me when she’s scared. Even now. Even grown. Even capable and building a life of her own. She still needs her mom sometimes.
And I still need to be needed.
Mothering big kids is a paradox. One moment they’re independent, hugging you goodbye as they head toward their own becoming. The next, they’re back in your arms—if only through a phone call—reaching for steadiness when the world feels too much.
They may fly. But we remain.
An anchor.
A calm voice in the storm.
Related Posts
