The Long View

Recently, I spent a weekend visiting my daughter at law school. I arrived carrying goodies from home, and a good bit of worry—that is, until I saw life through her eyes.

I sat in on a class. Contracts—the quintessential first-year course that introduces legal reasoning. It’s the one you see in the movies, perhaps designed to scare you away from law school. I was not deterred. 

We had lunch with her friends, and I watched her interact with professors who clearly respect her. It was impossible to miss her confidence, her enthusiasm, and comfort in this exhilarating and esteemed environment. 

Something in me softened.

She is just fine. She’s not lost, and she’s not alone. It became undeniably obvious that she doesn’t have a problem— I do.

She is following her heart and listening to her calling. When I can step back, even a few inches, I can see that clearly—and I am so frickin inspired by her.

It’s evident to me how my love can turn into projection and protection. It’s not the situation itself that causes potential suffering; it’s the story we tell ourselves about it. 

I can imagine future hardships — male-dominated spaces where her voice might be minimized, the pressure to prove herself, grueling hours, political crosscurrents, isolation in high-achieving environments — and suddenly it feels like I’m feeding her to the wolves.

Those thoughts cause me to tip my energy toward her, trying to keep our connection alive through vigilance rather than trust. I see now that although it’s rooted in love, it doesn’t feel good—to her or to me. It is distrustful, even intrusive. And it’s not actually her. 

It’s just my story. 

So I tend to my mama heart and pull my energy back—not away, just back into myself—and then something important happens. Space opens up. And in that space, there is room for genuine connection.

Not fear-based. Just connection. Connection that is shared 50/50.

I realize I wasn’t giving her the chance to meet me there because of the story playing in my head about some future scenario where I wouldn’t be able to protect her. 

I was doing way too much work, mostly up in my head.

One of my biggest fears is losing connection with my kids. That fear makes me behave in ways that aren’t so helpful, and then I lose sight of the human in front of me. My kids are big now, but this old habit still surfaces, especially in times of uncertainty and change.

Stepping back and trusting isn’t withdrawal; it’s an offering. The most supportive thing we can do is to stop managing our kids’ journey and start tending to our own fears and limitations. 

We often discuss this in parent coaching—taking responsibility for ourselves. It’s not easy.

I came home Sunday night feeling peaceful and content —with a renewed commitment to trust my kids to find their way, while staying rooted in myself as they do.

And from that place, our connection arises naturally, freely, and by mutual choice.