Releasing the old and embracing the new often asks us to hold two truths at once: the grief of what is passing, and the joy of what is beginning. For parents, this duality becomes especially sharp in September, as our children step into new school years, new independence, and new versions of themselves.
I want to acknowledge and validate the particular tug in these moments – a tug that feels like both love and loss. It’s the invisible rope that binds us to them: one end wrapped around our own hearts, the other tied gently to theirs. With every step they take towards their own life, the rope pulls – sometimes it feels like it burns, sometimes it feels like it lifts us with pride. It’s not a severing, but a stretching; not an end, but a recalibration of closeness.
When my youngest went off to secondary school in 2022, I wrote the following poem to try and capture that sensation: the simultaneous ache and celebration of watching someone you love walk further into who they are meant to be.
I Will Wave You on Your Way
Today, I will wave you on your way, my boy
your oversized bag tugging you backward and down –
even as you head forwards and up.
You push on through,
all determination and perseverance –
qualities I know you are made of.
Yet my knees feel weak for you,
my heart weaker still,
especially when you turn and offer that nervous smile.
My heart is wide open,
and you take it with you
as you are swallowed by the navy-blue sea of the unfamiliar,
stepping toward your new normal.
In that moment,
a soulful tug of war ensues between me
and the gates you are fast approaching.
I don’t want to let go. Not yet.
I think of what will never be quite the same:
the warmth of your small hand in mine,
the sitting-on-my-lap days already gone.
A past I am not ready to release.
Then I remember the truth I knew from the start:
that you were never mine alone.
I remember the joy you bring others
simply by being you,
and I remember my calling
to let you go with grace.
So I loosen my grip.
I watch as you disappear beyond the gate,
my heart wounded – yet alive
with the prospect of your becoming.
I walk away with tears in my eyes,
loose rope trailing behind,
knowing I have not fully let go.
But it is a start.
The start of my acceptance
of your journey into young adulthood.
I will wave you on your way,
and I will wait with arms wide for your return.
Whether you choose to share your day or not,
I will be all eyes, all ears,
all anxious hope.
For I am, and always will be,
your biggest fan.
© Claire Pestana 2022
If you, too, feel this tug – know that you are not alone. Every parent who watches their child step out into the world feels that same rope pulling taut, sometimes painfully, sometimes beautifully. The grief for what is changing is real, and so is the joy for who they are becoming. Both belong, both are sacred.
Perhaps the gentlest way to ease the tug is not to fight it, but to honour it. To recognise that it is the very evidence of love – love strong enough to ache, yet spacious enough to let go. And a love that you know will continue to serve.
As you watch your child take their next steps this September, may you give yourself permission to feel it all: the ache, the pride, the wonder. And may you remember that while the rope stretches, it does not break – because love endures, reshapes, and finds new ways to connect.
You are still, and will always be, their safe place to return. 💛