I am happy, I am sad. I am excited, I am scared. I am eager, I am reluctant.
Surely they make medication for this? But alas, apparently, this is how it feels to be the mom of a high school senior.
My son is graduating this year from Pike Road High School (Class of 2027, Go Patriots), and suddenly every “last” feels enormous. The last first day of high school. The last football season. The last year of high school marching band. The last time I’ll sit in these stands watching him take the field, pretending I’m completely fine while mentally flipping through eighteen years of memories.
I am not fine, but also…I am completely fine. Welcome to the duality of the senior mom.
I look at him and see this young man who is ready for whatever comes next—college, work, adventure, independence. Who has taken on leadership roles, excels at anything musical, and has become the de facto therapist for his friend group. But I also see the little boy who needed me to tie his shoes and whose teddy bear, according to a school assignment, was “the most important thing in his life.” Surely those two people cannot be the same person? And surely I have not aged a single day during this transformation? (Please respect my privacy regarding that last statement; I will not be taking any questions at this time.)
Marching band has made this final year especially bittersweet. There is something about watching your child march onto a field with confidence, knowing how many hours of practice, sweat, friendships, bus rides, and probably questionable concession-stand dinners brought him there.
And then comes the scary part: letting go.
But perhaps that is where Jesus meets us most clearly—not by promising that change won’t happen, and that it won’t hurt, but by reminding us that he goes ahead of our children into every place we cannot follow. That we are not alone, and heartache will be offset by the joy of watching our son flourish.
So I’m learning to hold two truths at once: I can grieve the ending and celebrate the beginning.I can miss the little boy and be ridiculously proud of the young man.I can want to hold on and still open my hands.
This year, I’ll cheer loudly, take entirely too many pictures, cry at the most inappropriate and inopportune moments, and embarrass him at least once. It is, after all, my sacred duty as his mother.
And when that final note is played and that diploma is handed over, I’ll remind myself: He is ready. And somehow, because I know Jesus goes with him, so am I.