The Runaway Train

This is, undoubtedly, a unique time in our lives—a suspenseful and eventful chapter in our story.

And as someone who so faithfully chronicled my daughter’s early childhood on this very blog, I feel a nagging sense of guilt for staying quiet now.

This is it—this is the final stretch that we’ve been dreading since the moment our precious baby Ryley entered the world. We’re standing on the caboose of a runaway train, watching the looming canyon grow closer and closer, and there’s nothing we can do to stop it. We can try to sneak in last-minute life lessons here and there, or say, "Hey, have we ever taught you how to (fill-in-the-blank)," but at this point, it kind of feels too late. It’s in God’s hands now. When the train hits the cliff, she’ll sail into her future—protected by Him alone.

The thickening plot in Ryley’s life story is not unlike a "Choose Your Own Adventure" book: all the other plot points to come and all the characters she will meet are hinged upon some pretty big choices she's making right now. Will she do her virtual homework or not? Will she waste her asynchronous class time on TikTok or will she apply for scholarships? Will she go to college? If so, will it be in Seattle? Will it be in Texas? Will it be 45 minutes from home? What will her future be? I wonder ...

I’ve always taken great consolation in my ability to express myself through writing. But over the last few months, I’ve had nothing. Just overwhelming awe and pride at her beautiful spirit—mixed with fear about how she’ll ever hear her alarm clock go off without us. Ryan is convinced we’ll need to live within 10 minutes of her college so that we can drive her to class or work while she ties her shoes and applies her makeup in the front seat. 😉

This indecision about college and the anxiety surrounding where she’s going to be in six months is beyond my brain capacity. Our entire household feels on edge. I'm coining the term "virtual senioritis" to describe her mental state. My emotions vacillate from one minute to the next: viewing her as a competent almost-adult, yet still seeing my sweet baby ... feeling excitement for her, yet feeling extreme sadness for me. I don’t think there was a day in January or February that Ryan or Ryley didn’t barge into my home office and see mascara running down my face.

When she told me she wanted to stay home and go to a state school here in Colorado, I knew she was saying it out of fear of going far away. I responded, “If that’s where God wants you to go, that’s fine. But don’t make that decision because you’re afraid of going out of state. Don’t make a decision based on fear.” And I thought, What am I doing? She just said she wants to stay close to you! Why are you telling her to go?

Because I’m almost 100-percent certain it's the right thing for her—to forge her own path.

I told her months ago that, though it was hard to see it then, at some point she would just know where she should go. Just like every other decision in our lives, God would make it clear, and He would give her peace. And now, she feels a strong pull toward a college that wasn’t even on her radar before November, and we wait (quite impatiently) for that coveted acceptance letter. The anticipation and anxiety can make you crazy, and everything is made even more complicated by the pandemic and the uncertainty of whether classes will be held in person. It’s hard to plan even the basics of your future when the very fabric of normal life itself seems to have unraveled.

After the sounds of her various Ryley-noises have bounced off our walls for almost 18 years … after she’s literally filled every square inch of our home with her personality, her hair, her boundless energy, her love … How the heck are we supposed to live without her? How is Ryan supposed to teach at the school without her poking her head in his classroom and dumping her heavy backpack on a desk before flitting off to after-school activities? How are we supposed to fill our evenings? Will we even remember to eat?

The truth is, we’ve been empty-nesting for some time now. When she got her driver’s license 18 months ago, a friend told me that this is when it starts. She’s already been creating a life for herself at work, in her youth group, with her friends. But always, after being away for a few hours, she comes home—and tells us all about it, leaving a trail of her belongings from the front door all the way down to the family room (while often bearing Starbucks drinks for her dear ma and pa). Soon, she won’t. Maybe she’ll text us. If we’re lucky, she’ll call. It will be a quiet existence, I think. Maybe we’ll pursue some of our budding hobbies—gardening for me and a forge for Ryan. More reading, perhaps. More travel. Whatever this new existence looks like, it will definitely have less of the physical presence of Ryley. And that makes me sad.

Just like I did when I was pregnant and scared to death of childbirth, sometimes I have to remind myself of where I fit in the big picture. Every human being on the planet is the result of a pregnancy and childbirth. I convinced myself 18 years ago that if billions of women could give birth, I could do it, too. In the same way, I realize that every adult on the planet (well, all adults living on their own, anyway) had to grow up and leave their parents behind at some point. I did it. Ryan did it. Our parents did it. Of course we’re not so self-involved to think that what we’re going through is anything new.

It’s the natural order of things—the circle of life.

“I just can’t believe we’re at the end,” Ryan said in the midst of a somewhat emotional talk he and I had one evening.

Oh—not the end of our parenting, of course. Just the end of the "day-to-day." The end of her childhood—which, my goodness, has been a lot of fun.

Truthfully, we want her to go and be all the things she wants to be and do all the things she wants to do. Nothing would make us prouder than having raised her to be self-sustaining, self-sufficient, and confident. But I also remember how after my first semester at college, I returned home for Christmas, and everything felt different. Because I was different. That knowledge creeps around in my head, reminding me that even when she comes home, it won't be the same.

Part of me wants to just soak up this precious remaining time and not worry about finding words for it. But I know, deep-down, that I have to write it. This is how I process my deepest feelings and come to terms with them. It’s just me and my emotions, fighting it out with words. Not even the pandemic affected me enough to inspire me to write about my personal introspection. 

But this? Of all the parts of her story thus far, this is the most important one. This is the part where she flies.

Stay tuned.