With June comes the promise of longer and warmer days. It’s also that time of year when throngs of smiling graduates celebrate their hard work and accomplishments with family and friends. They talk excitedly in anticipation of what lay ahead, and if you listen closely and ask the right questions, they may even share their muted apprehension and fears, as they leave familiar comforts behind and venture into a world of unknowns.
This spring, my eldest son graduated from high school. Oblivious to what other feelings might have been lurking just beneath the surface, I beamed with pride and enthusiasm as he took his last Advanced Placement tests, selected a suit for his Sr. prom, fiercely played his final lacrosse game, and carefully made the decision of where he’d attend college in the fall.
I was truly excited for him. All of these “lasts” meant a myriad of new experiences were on the horizon. New adventures, new lessons, and certainly many more accomplishments to come. This was a big milestone and an important rite of passage for us all.
My husband helped him plan his summer trip to Europe with friends, and I busied myself with the preparations for the end-of-year ceremonies and celebrations, while providing the necessary support for both of my weary sons as they took their final exams, completed projects and presentations, and wrapped up what had been a grueling academic year. Acute senioritis flare-ups occurred on weekday mornings, requiring a shrewd bedside manner with calculated encouragement and savvy ultimatums. We were all playing a high-stakes game of whack-a-mole, and before any of us could even catch our breath, we joined other proud friends and families at the promotion and graduation ceremonies, and dove head-first into celebration mode. As exhausting as it all was, it was even more thrilling.
It wasn’t until the last party came to a close and I was putting away the very graduation decor I’d excitedly hung, that I felt an intense upwelling of emotion, one I can only describe as the sadness that accompanies great loss. It suddenly dawned on me that I was losing my little boy.
My mind microfiched through the 17 years of our lives together: the swaddled bundle we first brought home, the 3-year-old who set the microwave to four hours to heat his early morning cinnamon bread and filled the kitchen with smoke, the teenager who lost a phone and a flip flop to a crocodile in Costa Rica but managed to find his way out of the mangrove and back to safety. Moments of wonder, adventure, and even extreme aggravation flickered before me as I welcomed the many memories, and smiled softly. It was true what they said; the time does pass by quickly.
Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, my nostalgic ride was interrupted by the sharp realization that his childhood was now just a collection of memories, images, and the bouquet of feelings I’d ascribed to them. His childhood was over.
When he was born, I knew the countdown had already started: our arrangement was temporary and I embraced my role as his mother. It was my hope to help him grow into a young man who is independent and confident, hardworking and playful, kind and loving, and attuned to his own passions as well as the needs of the world around him. When he started kindergarten a year early, a full year was gobbled up in an instant, leaving us with less than seventeen years together.
One thing I knew for sure was that I was not going to hold him back like my mother had done to me. Her love had been suffocating. Debilitating. A confusing and painful tether.
And now, I understand why. Her actions came from her heart and other deep emotional places. I was the youngest of the brood. She’d already gone through the pain and grief when my brothers each moved away, so when it was my turn, she desperately clutched onto me. She did it out of love and also out of fear of being alone. Unsurprisingly, it ended up serving neither of us, aside from giving me juicy stories for my memoir.
As I sit in disbelief about how quickly the 870 weeks with our firstborn has passed, and as the sadness washes over me, wisdom cradles my heart, reminding me that this had always been the plan. From my own upbringing, I’d learned that children are not ours to possess, but to love and nurture so that they can set forth on their own journeys and flourish in their own ways.
I feel the loss, and I take comfort in knowing that in the residual emptiness, there is space for growth. Unlike the female octopus who stops eating after laying a clutch of eggs and literally dies of starvation after devoutly caring for her eggs, we humans still have decades of life ahead of us once we have raised our children. Life after kids.
I’m hopeful that once the relentless demands of parenting have subsided enough to give way to new freedoms, we can excavate old interests and passions, or even find new ikigai. Blended from the word “iki” (living) and “gai” (worth), the term ikigai refers to the Japanese philosophy of pursuing joy and a sense of purpose for a life worth living. In its original essence1, you can have more than one ikigai and they can even be small, mundane pursuits or simple joys.
Sadly, the mother octopus who begins her death spiral after releasing her young into the world reminds me of my own mother, who never managed to detangle herself from motherhood and never really experienced a life of her own after us kids. Of course there were moments of happiness in seeing her adult children flourish, and lots of enjoyment from interacting with her exuberant grandchildren, but she never embraced an ikigai independent from us. While happiness was tragically elusive for my mother and she never seemed to overcome what she perceived as abandonment, the lessons were abundant.
I’m coming to realize that a human’s life is lived in rather distinct phases, often brought on by factors outside of our control. As our life changes, while we can’t force it or bend it to our will, we can certainly redefine ourselves and our pursuit of purpose and joy so that we can continue to live a life we consider worthwhile. ❤️❤️
What are the actions or simple joys that help you find purpose or meaning in life?
I’d love to hear your thoughts! Until then, I wish you moments of great clarity so that you may see past the daily clutter, quiet the noise, and savor what truly matters to you. Thank you for reading!
For this month’s little joy, I’ve chosen a quote from chapter 11 of Lao Tzu’s Tao Te Ching and an image of two Giant Barrel Sponges on the ocean floor. Like many of the concepts in the Tao Te Ching, the idea of utility from the void blew my mind in my early college years, and still continues to tweak my perception of the world around me. So much so that as I marveled at the sight of these animals on a recent dive (which do indeed look like pottery), I couldn’t help but wonder what occurs in their emptiness. If you’re curious too, you can read about it here.
Responses from May’s Newsletter Question What is something you thought you couldn’t do? What did you find on the other side of that fear?
“While I wasn't particularly excited about the public speaking part of it (understatement of the year), successfully delivering a Best Man speech at Jeremy's wedding showed me that there is empathy and joy to be found on the other side.” —Dan
“I grew up feeling like I was never good enough. It was paralyzing. Time after time, I was somehow consistently able to reaffirm this belief. It wasn’t until I chose radical self-love and started sharing my fears with others that I began to understand whose voice that actually was and how I could quiet it.“ —Anonymous
ICYMI
Newsletters: May: What's on the other side of fear?
Joy snacking: Espresso, Squirrels
Recent posts: "I quietly hoard memoirs”
Laila- you have such great wisdom and truth in your writing. Your description of the emotions you transcribe remind me that I am not too far behind in my own journey of our children’s lives.
I sometimes feel that I have given 100% to my children that I have lost a bit of myself. To think of the next phase in life fills me with hope as I strive for ikigai