Graduation, Dust Storms, and the Art of Reentry
The Last Launch
Somewhere on the road to Champaign, it hit me. Not like a cinematic wave—more like a quiet settling. As U2’s Where the Streets Have No Name poured through the car speakers and a dust storm warning lit up our phones, I realized we were approaching the end of something. Not just the drive. Not just the semester. But a chapter—maybe even a volume—of life.
“The city's a flood
And our love turns to rust
We're beaten and blown by the wind
Trampled in dust
I'll show you a place High on the desert plain, yeah
Where the streets have no name, oh, oh”
Geo, our youngest, was about to graduate college.
And just like that, all four of our sons would be launched into the world, each writing their own story. They’ve been adults for a while now, technically speaking. But this one felt different. Final. A proud kind of ache settled in as we neared campus.
Even before Geo became the family’s keeper of all Star Wars lore, we affectionately called him Yoda. He’s always been wise beyond his years—quietly insightful, endlessly curious, and capable of lighting up a room with dry humor and one raised eyebrow.
Now, Yoda is grown.
As a parent, you prepare for these moments. Or you think you do. But there’s no training manual for the shift from daily check-ins to “phone a friend” status. I know this is where we’re meant to be. I’ve done my job—successfully, lovingly, and with all the messiness that raising four humans requires.
But if I’m being honest, I feel a little lost.
I haven’t let the grief settle in yet. I keep it at arm’s length—sometimes by design, sometimes just to stay upright. There’s pride, of course. Endless pride. And joy. And gratitude. But there’s also an unfamiliar quiet that follows. It’s not unwelcome. Just… different.
Maybe this is the part where I remember that reinvention doesn’t start with a grand gesture. It starts with noticing what I need—and daring to answer. For me, that usually means turning to art, to travel, to connection. It means getting out of my own way and showing up for others with a clear heart.
Inspired by Colin, who’s been taking Zoom language classes (and making it look kind of magical), I’m thinking of ditching the apps and signing up for a class myself. Staying curious has always been my way forward. Maybe now it’s more vital than ever.
To my sons—Drew, Colin, Edward, and Geo—my message is simple: Live your lives with joy, and keep awe as your North Star.
To myself: Be patient. Change doesn’t happen overnight.
I’m not exactly sure what comes next. But I know this: the season of full-time mothering may be over, but the seasons of becoming, of learning, of loving—those are still wide open. And maybe, just maybe, this isn’t an ending at all.
It’s just another beginning.
More Later!
Amy
Thank you for sharing! It's a beautiful reflection