Today, my son completes Kindergarten.
Later this morning, there will be a little ceremony and just like that, he’ll officially become a 1st grader.
I didn’t expect to feel so much, but here I am.
This year was a huge adjustment for him… and honestly, for me.
And if I had to do it all again — which I will with my younger son — I’d do my best to surrender more often.
Parenting has a way of pushing our buttons in the most expansive of ways.
This year, it pushed mine.
But it also opened up something I didn’t see coming: healing.
Not just watching my son grow, but revisiting myself at his age.
Feeling what I felt.
Noticing where I still hold tight.
And softening toward the parts of me that didn’t get what they needed back then.
Somehow, parenting him helped me reparent myself.
Like most parents, I did what I thought would work.
I insisted on rhythm.
Homework as soon as he got home.
Wash hands, change into comfortable clothes.
One book a day turned into three.
Spelling tests every Monday — he misspelled one word all year, and it was a classic mix-up: B instead of D.
We navigated every hiccup with honest conversations and open communication with his teachers.
We were definitely among the most involved parents.
And it showed.
His scores exceeded expectations.
He’s reading and doing math at a second-grade level.
But none of that would matter if he hadn’t done his part.
You can take a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink.
I had to learn that lesson more than once this year.
Our kids, especially the smart and independent ones, don’t just obey.
They ask why.
They want to understand.
They remember what we say, compare it to what we do, and they hold us to the truth.
They want things to make sense.
They want us to make sense.
And that’s a gift, even if it’s a hard one.
So I sit here, in the quiet of a sleeping house, letting the emotions move through.
Maybe the tears are just a release.
Of the intention, the attention, the tension that’s been held all year long.
I gave this year everything I had.
And somehow, still kept the rest of life going.
I can feel summer approaching in a new way — not just a change in schedule, but a deeper exhale.
A true pause.
Our bodies need that.
A reset before the next mountain comes into view.
What I know is this:
Things don’t happen overnight.
Not the meaningful things.
They take time.
Consistency.
Presence.
Effort.
And now I get to sit in the beautiful feeling of a job well done.
Thank you to the Universe for this wild and holy job of mothering.
For my husband, my mom, our family, our teachers, our friends.
Even the strangers who showed up at the right time.
Thank you for these kind and curious boys.
Thank you for the opportunity to walk with them, to raise them, to learn from them.
And thank you for the chance to celebrate — not just the visible wins, but all the unseen work that makes them possible.
