My “baby” finished high school last semester. Not with a big ceremony or a last walk through crowded hallways, but quietly. His classes wrapped up, his books closed, and just like that, the rhythm of high school ended in our home. He’ll still walk in graduation ceremonies in May, but in so many ways, this season has already turned.
In 2026, our oldest is getting married, and our youngest is graduating high school. Somehow, all at once, I’m closing one chapter and opening another. My motherhood journey has quickly shifted into the season of coaching young adults.
These days, my son’s life looks different than it used to. He’s working to save for college. He’s studying to improve his ACT score. He’s practicing percussion with focus as he prepares to audition for a collegiate marching band. There’s a steady purpose about him lately, less little boy, more young man with a sense of purpose and direction.
It feels like the final lap of a race I’ve been running for twenty-two years.
For a long time, motherhood meant hands-on everything. Daily direction. Monitoring schedules. Checking homework. Managing rides, meals, bedtimes, and boundaries. I built worlds for my kids and invited them to live inside them, safe and structured and centered around our family rhythm.
Now the work looks different.
I still have kids living at home, but they have clearly built worlds beyond the ones I created for them. Their friendships, jobs, schedules, and dreams stretch farther than my reach ever could. And with that comes a gentle, but absolute shift in my role.
I’m moving from hands-on mothering to hands-up cheering.
From daily directing to daily connecting.
From monitoring to guiding by invitation.
Instead of managing every step, I get to walk beside them, listen first, pray more, and speak when invited. It’s less about control and more about trust. Trusting the God who loves them even more than I do, and trusting the seeds planted along the way.
This season of motherhood has been mostly beautiful. The role changes with each child, because hearts are different. One child thrives on affection and responds best to a whispered correction. Another needs space where too much structure feels stifling. In the same home, with the same parents, souls can need completely different approaches. And over the years, we’ve learned together how to love well.
Along the way, I’ve been too harsh sometimes.
Too lenient other times.
Too isolating.
Too inconsistent.
But in every season, I did the very best I knew how to do with what God placed in my hands at the time.
I carry a peaceful hope that love and connection will outweigh my mistakes. I want each of my kids to know I am a safe place to fall apart, to laugh too hard, to ask hard questions, or to celebrate any accomplishment, big or small. I want them to know there isn’t only one “right” path. That God unfolds plans as we walk, not before we move.
One of my favorite ways to talk about the future is simple: Take a step in a direction and allow God to guide. Scripture says, “In their hearts humans plan their course, but the Lord establishes their steps” (Proverbs 16:9). We don’t need the whole map, just faith for the next step. And lately, I’ve been watching my final guy take his.
There’s something tender about this last one moving into his next season. I find myself soaking in the glow of watching him move forward with discipline, humility, determination, and hope.
I will always treasure the days when their hearts were all mine, the scraped knees, bedtime prayers, carpool talks, and the sweet simplicity of small hands wrapped in mine. Those moments shaped me as much as they shaped them. Today, I’m content with where we’ve arrived.
I’m excited about doing life with grown kids. About travel and shared adventures. About coffee dates, cheering sections, and spontaneous plans. About supporting their dreams without carrying their backpacks. About staying connected, not because they need me to manage their lives, but because they want me in them.
As I watch my baby finish his final lap of childhood, I see clearly now, this isn’t an ending. It’s a handoff. From mothering children to walking alongside emerging adults, cheering just as loudly, praying just as fiercely, and loving just as deeply.
