Going Back to School: Letting Go, A Little Bit at a Time

Three years of homeschooling are over.

They’re in school.

And for the first time in a very long time, we’re alone.

It’s strange.

Not bad, not good - just... different.

For the past few weeks, I’ve been trying to make sense of how I feel.

Because I’m happy,

and I’m also mourning a little.

I miss the morning cuddles, those slow, soft starts to the day when the kids would climb into our bed with the first light.

And I still remember that last cuddle on the boat, the one where I already knew it would be the last.

We didn’t homeschool because we thought it was better.

We did it because the journey required it.

And in the process, we discovered so much about the kids, about ourselves, about how learning actually happens.

We learned what frustrates them, what lights them up.

We learned to teach, to guide, to support through meltdowns and joy.

We were their parents, their teachers, and their best friends.

And now they’re in classrooms, with kids they don’t know, in a language they don’t speak, with teachers who don’t yet know them like we do.

So we sat at a café, staring at our coffee, wondering if they’d survive the day.

They did.

They even came back smiling.

But I’m still not sure how I fit into all of this.

They need me less now,

and I still need them so much.

I’m learning to let go -to give them small steps of independence,

to skip the goodbye kiss in front of their friends,

to let them walk into their own lives, even when I miss them deeply.

And something in the glue that held us so close - it’s starting to soften.

It’s not breaking.It’s just changing shape.

And it’s okay.

It’s even natural.

But it still hurts, even when it feels right.

So I’m embracing this new chapter.

Letting time do its work and helping things settle.

I take comfort in knowing that summer break is near - two whole months of “us.”

And in the meantime, I’m learning to build our new kind of together.

Lunches around the table,

evening chats on the couch,

hugs whenever and wherever we can.

And when we’re finally done settling in, I want us to find something new to do together - a hobby, a shared joy, something that’s just ours.

Because in this new home, with its stairs and separate rooms, our togetherness no longer happens by default.

We have to choose it.

We have to build it.

Just like we did before - only now, differently.