I saw her weeping in the parking lot after a beautiful graduation ceremony and party. Her husband held her as she cried, and when she looked up at him, he kissed her soundly and then quietly rocked her as she burrowed into his shirt.
I was glad for her — glad she had him, glad he let her cry, glad he was consoling.
It has been 17 years since my first child graduated from high school. I still remember how bewildering it was that the world didn’t stop and acknowledge the grief. It seemed like there was an unspoken rule not to rain on the jubilant celebration with one’s grief. No one spoke into the myriad of emotions that crash in a woman’s heart when she officially launches a child into the world except to say that in a short time, the pain that comes with cleaving would be just a memory and all would be better than ever.
Stopping to grieve was clearly frowned upon.
Go back to the party. Put a smile on your face. You’re throwing a shadow over everyone’s good time. Put grief in its place. Save it for death — but not for too long. For big things — but only where appropriate. Don’t grieve the complex things that are shot through with joy. And for goodness’ sake, don’t weep openly in the parking lot when there’s a party going on inside.
When it was my turn to be the mother of a graduate for the first time, I kept thinking we would never be all of us, and just us, again. There were seven children at home, and another baby was to be born, but the dynamic in our family shifted dramatically. I don’t think children know how each one of them is a crucial part of our whole. Mothers know so well. That wrenching feeling? That sense that the family fabric my husband and I had so carefully woven was being unraveled, even if just a little bit? I’ll never forget how bereft it left me.
The words of encouragement out there for moms of graduates all focus on a job well done and then pivot to look to the opportunities to pursue their own dreams in an empty-nest future. And of course, those should be addressed. Raising a child is no small thing. You deserve a hearty pat on the back and more. But most moms I talk to don’t quite feel like doing a jig. Instead, they feel like they ran out of time. There is a nagging feeling that we have so much more we want to give to the grown child.
And that’s the thing about the “empty nest happy dance”: you are not finished yet, not by a long shot.
I think that mothering people in their 20d is the most challenging mothering of all, and I see salt-and-pepper heads nodding in agreement as they read those words. Those are the things no one says. It’s not over at all. Buckle up. Here comes the wild ride for which everything leading up to this moment has just been preparation.
Let yourself grieve the full measure of what was: your child snug and safe under your roof, the sense that there was plenty of hope and plenty of grace still treasured up in the abundance of time together to say and do the important things and the trivial ones.
And just know as you step out of the party and into the dark, our Lord is still with you — with you and your child together, with your family as you figure out your new normal, with your heart as it breaks, and he pours into the cracks. Breathe deeply in the cool, dark air of the evening. I dearly hope there is someone to hold you while you cry.
Foss, whose website is takeupandread.org, writes from Connecticut.
