The Letting Go Season

This morning, I paused at the top of our driveway before shifting into reverse. Luke’s car was parked on one side, Chap’s on the other. Both boys under our roof, asleep in their rooms, for just a little while longer.

It hit me, clear as day: in eight weeks, I’ll be backing out of an empty driveway most mornings.

I’ve been so deeply grateful for Luke’s healing that I haven’t let myself feel much sadness about him moving off to college. Honestly, how could I be anything but thankful? For months, I didn’t know if we’d get to have this future at all. Every time I see him laugh with his brother or hear music drifting from his room, I’m reminded—we’re living in answered prayers.

We used to measure progress in vital signs, scan results, and minutes of responsiveness. Now we measure it in text messages about weekend plans, grocery store runs for weekly family dinners, and sibling banter that echoes through the house. These are holy milestones, too.

And it’s not lost on me what a gift it is that Luke and Chap will start this next chapter together. There’s comfort in that. They’ll have each other as they navigate this new stretch of the road, and that’s more than I could have hoped for.

But this morning reminded me of something else, too:
Gratitude doesn’t cancel out grief.

They can sit side by side—one whispering, “Look how far you’ve come,” while the other sighs, “Don’t forget how much you’ll miss this.”

In one of the updates I shared during Luke’s early recovery, I wrote:

“Last night was Luke’s senior homecoming dance. We know he wouldn’t have wanted anything more than to be making memories with his friends and girlfriend, Hannah. We’re also still so thankful that he survived his car accident and is receiving excellent care here at ROH. We are learning to hold both of these things—grief and gratitude—in tension, knowing that God works all things for good. Making meaning out of suffering is one of the boldest things one can do in the face of a situation like this, and we are doing our very best not to miss the moment while also giving ourselves grace for it all.”

That remains true.

Through seasons of challenge—especially Luke’s near-fatal car accident and his long recovery—our family has learned how to hold things with an open hand, understanding that many emotions can be true at once.

Unimaginable fear and anchored hope. Deep sorrow and quiet trust. Grief and gratitude, braided together.

There’s something humbling about loving your children at every stage—when you’re wiping their tears, cheering them on at wrestling matches and guitar recitals, sitting at their hospital bedside, or watching them pack for a future you once begged God to give them. Every phase requires a new kind of surrender.

And so in this season, I am learning again how to hold both:

To grieve what’s coming as my boys fly the nest,
To rejoice in all that’s made their flight possible,
And to look forward to their futures with a heart wide open.

It’s in the little things.
The sound of their footsteps above me.
The door swinging open at midnight.
The trail of shoes on the stairs.
The remnants of breakfast on the kitchen counter.
The quiet comfort of knowing everyone is home.

There’s a unique kind of silence I’m bracing for—the one that follows years of motion, of the best kind of noise, of shared living. A silence that will call for intention. For presence. For remembering that I am still me, even when my greatest gifts are no longer just down the hall.

I always knew this season would come. I just didn’t know it would feel like both an ending and a beginning.

And maybe that’s the most honest part of all: that the letting go hurts because the love runs so deep.

So I’ll hold space for both.
For the ache.
For the awe.
For everyday holiness of it all.


Five Mantras I’m Carrying into This Season

I’ve found comfort lately in short phrases—mantras I repeat when the lump rises in my throat, when the house feels too quiet, or when I need a reminder that this season is sacred, too.

Here are five I’m carrying with me:

  1. “This is what healing looks like.”
    When I feel the ache of goodbye, I remember—it’s only possible because of the miracle of survival.

  2. “Letting go is a form of love.”
    The best kind of love doesn’t cling. It releases with open hands and steady trust.

  3. “I am still becoming.”
    Their story is just beginning—and so is mine, in many ways.

  4. “The silence is not empty.”
    It holds memories, growth, possibility. I will learn to listen to it.

  5. “Joy is allowed here. Beauty, too.”
    Even in the letting go, even in the missing—joy and beauty can still be found.

Whatever season you find yourself in—holding on, letting go, or somewhere in between—I hope you give yourself permission to feel all of it. To celebrate, to mourn, to trust, to breathe.

We don’t have to rush through the in-between.
There’s beauty in this space, too.

Keep shining,

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The Hurt and the Healing