The Joy (and Sorrow) of Milestones

The Toothpaste Can’t Be Put Back in the Tube

Four years ago, I wrote about the ache of dropping my eldest off at college—that particular grief of watching your child step into independence. The response was overwhelming; parents from around the world shared the same tender heartbreak.

This past May, that same child graduated. In the blink of an eye, as the cliché goes. To my surprise, my heart hurts all over again, though differently this time. This is the part that doesn't get discussed as much in our collective conversations about parenting: milestone moments can wound us both coming and going.

We're given permission to cry at drop-off, but few acknowledge the strange ache of completion. When a Facebook friend commented that graduation must be "such a fun time launching these adults," I wanted to say yes, absolutely—and also, the pain is real and present.

Because what comes after the pomp and circumstance? Real life, with all its beautiful uncertainty. For those of us wired for worry, it feels like stepping off a cliff. Where are my kids headed? Where am I headed? What if we grow apart? The existential questions multiply in ways they never did during the structured safety of the college years.

Anxiety: That Stupid Song That Played All Summer (Literally and Figuratively)

It hasn't helped that I've spent most of this year caught in anxiety's grip. I've read all the definitions—unfocused fear, acute sensitivity, the mind's attempt to control the uncontrollable. What I know for certain is that it feels terrible. Morning after morning, I'd wake with that familiar dropping sensation in my stomach, as if the world had shifted overnight. When my therapist asks where I feel soothed, I say the Barneys Beverly Hills Shoe Department circa 1995 (RIP, by the way), but the truth is harder to name. The weight on my chest—like a thousand coffee table books—persisted until one day it simply didn't. Anxiety visits me in waves, demanding everything before it recedes.

The Doula of Fun

Milestones demand performance. As a mother, I felt responsible not just for experiencing the joy of graduation weekend, but for creating it. Thankfully, I'm a sucker for ceremony, and American colleges deliver it in abundance: the sight of your child in academic regalia, diploma in hand; the soaring bagpipe processional; baby photos of graduates in the commemorative newspaper; the earnest alumna speaker promising that everything will work out fine.

I threw myself into the role. I met every friend, attended every event, laughed and cried in equal measure. I drank terrible beer and overpriced cocktails. I arrived early, stayed late, made small talk with other parents I'd never see again. I was determinedly cheerful while staring out the same hotel window where, four years earlier, a turkey sandwich and Diet Coke had moved me to tears. John Mayer's "Gravity" still echoed in my head—I still want to be kept where the light is.

I Couldn’t Help But Wonder…

Throughout the festivities, certain thoughts shadowed me like faithful companions:

Our cheering section was small—just my husband and me. Our younger daughter was away on a school trip, and the crowds of extended families, sometimes twenty or thirty strong, made me acutely aware of what we were missing. Just a few years ago, all four grandparents would have been there. Now two are gone, and two can't travel. As for the rest of our extended family, I want to cultivate the habit of showing up for one another’s occasions.

Therapy teaches us that two things can be true simultaneously, but there's something that feels almost heretical about holding opposite emotions at once. Yet there I was, containing multitudes: joy and pain, courage and fear, connection and profound loneliness. I'm learning to make peace with this contradiction.

And here's a confession: I have no patience for people who move through life's milestones feeling nothing at all. The emotionally flat, the determinedly unmoved—they're not my people. Life is too brief and too precious for that kind of detachment.

Regathering

Here I am again, entering another phase of this parenting life. You'd think I'd be better at transitions by now. I love the word "regathering" to describe this time—I'm searching for a new way to be in the world, a new version of myself.

They say the grass grows greenest where you water it. Attention is like sunlight; things flourish where we direct our care. I'm curious to see how my garden grows.

It's good to be back in touch.

Xo -P

Instagram: @priyaadesai.writer