This past weekend, I moved my 22-year-old daughter into her first apartment.

I knew it was coming. She graduated from college in May and made the decision to go to grad school out of state. We talked about it. We planned for it. We visited her new university and found the apartment together. We shopped for this new apartment. We rented the U-Haul, packed all of her things, and eventually, the day came.

And it was a lot of work.

My husband and I even celebrated the new space we had suddenly reclaimed in our garage. We caravanned to her new place, carried boxes, put together furniture, unpacked dishes, and helped turn an empty apartment into the beginning of her new home.

It was fun and exciting!

And then, I had to leave her.

That’s when it hit me: this was the end of an era.

This wasn’t quite like college, when I knew she’d be coming home for breaks and summers. This felt different. More permanent. And here’s the confusing part: this was a good change.

This is what we want for our children, isn’t it? We raise them hoping they will become independent. We encourage them to dream, take risks, build lives of their own, and become increasingly confident in who they are.

She was doing exactly what she was supposed to be doing.

So why was it so heartbreaking?

We tend to think grief belongs only to things that have gone wrong.

Loss. Death. Divorce. Illness. Disappointment. Endings we didn’t choose. But grief can also accompany the things we’ve prayed for, worked toward, and celebrated.

A graduation. A new job. A marriage. A move. Retirement. Children growing up. A new season of life.

Sometimes grief isn’t telling us that something is wrong. Sometimes it’s simply reminding us that something mattered.

Leaving my daughter in her new apartment wasn’t heartbreaking because I didn’t want her to go. It was heartbreaking because I loved the season that came before it.

There were years of backpacks by the door and shoes on the floor. School schedules and sporting events. Late-night conversations. Family dinners. College breaks. Knowing, even as she became increasingly independent, that home was still her home base.

And without realizing it, somewhere along the way, those ordinary days became an era.

Then one day, you’re standing in an apartment in another state, hugging your adult child goodbye, realizing you don’t get to know exactly what the next version of your relationship will look like.

That’s the bittersweet part of change.

Something can be beautiful and still hurt.

I think sometimes we make transitions harder by believing we have to decide how we feel about them.

Am I happy or sad?

Excited or grieving?

Proud or heartbroken?

But human emotions are rarely that simple.

I can be incredibly proud of my daughter and miss her.

I can be excited about what is ahead for her and grieve what is ending for me.

I can know this transition is healthy and wish, for just a moment, that I could slow it down.

Both can be true.

There is something deeply healthy about allowing ourselves to experience those emotions together rather than trying to talk ourselves out of one of them.

We don’t have to minimize sadness simply because the change is good.

Maybe that’s part of what makes transitions so uncomfortable. We know what we’re leaving, but we don’t always know what we’re moving toward.

My role as her mom isn’t ending. But it is changing.

And perhaps that’s where some of the grief lives.

Parenthood is a long series of letting go—often so gradually that we barely notice it happening. The first day of school. The first sleepover. The driver’s license. Graduation. College.

And eventually, the U-Haul.

Each step quietly asks us to loosen our grip while still staying connected.

To love someone enough to let the relationship grow into something new.

On the drive home, I realized I didn’t need to make the sadness disappear.

I didn’t need to remind myself how lucky I was or immediately focus on all the positives.

I could simply miss her.

Because sadness wasn’t evidence that this transition was wrong.

It was evidence that the season we were leaving had been meaningful.

There will be new rhythms now. New traditions. Phone calls and visits. Stories about a life she’s building that I won’t witness firsthand. And hopefully, a new kind of relationship between a mother and her adult daughter.

I think that’s what change asks of us.

Not to pretend that endings don’t hurt.

Not to cling so tightly to what was that we miss what is becoming.

But to somehow hold both.

To be grateful for what was.

To grieve what is ending.

And to remain open to what comes next.

Maybe that’s why change is so often bittersweet.

The bitter reminds us that something mattered.

And the sweet reminds us that something new is beginning.

💜

I’m so proud of you, Caitlyn!!