A farewell
Embracing a new journey with parenting
My baby came home for two weeks. Oh, how I missed her. I didn’t truly grasp the depth of that ache until her face appeared, framed by the joy of her clumsiness and her contagious laughter. She is becoming a fierce young woman, someone I want to be around—a best friend and ally. It’s all been worth it. I click my inner heels together, marvelling at this long product development journey—19 years, little funding. Now, a constellation finding its place in the cosmos. As a baby, she felt like an extension of my soul; now, she’s her own universe. She will always be a part of me, just as we are all interconnected. Yet she stands on her own now, free to choose, unbound by parental controls.
Letting go is hard. I thought I was prepared, having read about it in books, but the real experience is something else entirely, always something else. I practice to prepare for life—I’ve been practicing yoga and meditation for almost two decades, along with many self-help strategies, journaling, and inquiry. Yet, life meets me bare, innocent to the new experience. The practice is now put to the test.
When she boarded that plane with a one-way ticket, I followed a fortnight later, chasing the ghost of her presence. I delayed, prolonged, ignored the grief with each return ticket, each act of deferral. As long as I had a ticket, I believed we were tethered; her absence was only a mirage. I called her daily; she called me, sometimes twice, and our hearts bridged the distance. We became something more—best friends, mother and daughter, sisters, women. Our conversations deepened; I realized that I had done alright in this wild, uncharted territory of parenting. No manual, no guide—just this intricate dance between us.
She wants to be my friend (tears rise like tidal waves), and she is remarkable, an incredible being—funny, smart, caring. She’s an astonishing human. I did it. We did it. Her dad, siblings, our friends, the school, and above all, Ayla. We made it through, and this moment—a snapshot of pride and love—feels like a testament to our journey.
I’ve journeyed to NYC three times to see her, and she has returned to Byron Bay twice. A year has passed, and only now do I see the grief left in her absence, hidden behind the new depths of our bond. This raw, tender intimacy we share has cast a shadow on the unattended grief, or maybe it’s just rising to the surface now as we meet each other again in this newfound space of mother and daughter. Her departure unveiled blind spots, fears I wasn’t ready to confront. I saw a part of me—a mother hiding behind her identity, serving a purpose born anew each day through the care of a child. There are still two at home, phenomenal children adored. I know this is just the beginning of my shedding new layers. The significance of the firstborn, the first of anything. The uncharted territory of discovery.
I’m scared to burst the dam, to unbandage the wound. I don’t know what I’ll do with all that grief. It’s all tangled together, and everything I’ve ever lost is now standing in line behind Ayla, waiting to dive headfirst into the water as soon as the gates of the dam are opened.
I can feel this in my body. Tears come unbidden, overwhelming floods; I hide in my room. This has been happening for months, and I keep blaming my peri-hormones.
I wonder if I have allowed myself to truly feel her departure. As I write this, I see the chain of events covering the wound, which I am not yet ready to feel.
Home now, she’s content, sloth-like on the sofa, happy to be mothered, fed, and taken out for coffee. Happy for a break from adult life, from the need to fend for herself in the jungle of NYC. She is more appreciative, receptive, forgiving, and seeking care than ever before. It’s the distance, the lack, that has brought her to this place, just as it has for me. It’s the sudden absence that awakens the longing for each other. In this moment, I realize she will always be my baby. I feel my own mother flow through me as I make a bed or get excited to prepare dinner, happy to tend to the dishes, so happy to serve. Underneath the grief—the grief of losing a part of me as much as losing her physical daily footsteps in the house—lies the dawn of a mature woman. In five years, they will all be adults. I’ll be free to paint a new canvas for my life if I wish. Always a mother, waiting for the moments we get to spend together, filling a home again. I count my blessings.
She said, “I think Dad will cry at the airport every time I go.”
I said, “Oh, that’s so normal. I’ll be crying after you leave.”
“Ohhhh,” she said. “Mom…”
