I tried hard to pre-grieve this one.

Some big transitions are foreseeable — like dropping off your child at college like I did last week.

Some are a series of tiny endings we don’t even notice until something we took for granted is long gone.

How do we prepare for the parenting milestones that come careening toward us?!

The Last Time they sit in your lap. The Last Time they let you help them buckle into their car seat. The Last Time they ask you to read to them.

I scheduled rites of passage like our last marathon hate-watch of the TV show Nashville. I began stopping at her bedroom door with a nightly blessing from the book, Feminist Prayers for My Daughter. We got a final manicure.

She tolerated all of it.

I couldn’t force the picturesque connection I imagined in my head. Probably because connection tends to come from a relaxed parent (yeah, nope!) plus a combination of quality time and quantity of time.

I was numbly aware of this rushing river of time forcing me towards her exit. Had I made the most of our 18 years? Did I need to tell her anything important before the door to our lived together life slid shut?

We were out of time.

The anxiety bubbled up as an internalized question repeated over and over, “Am I doing this wrong?” The impending separation felt disorienting. Is there a right way to say goodbye?

I was trying everything to get my tears flowing but they refused to come early.

The night before the trip to college, teen brother and sister lay sprawled across my bed scrolling on their phones and staying just out of reach. The fleeting gravity of this intimate arrangement was as heavy as their long bodies draped over the dog. “This moment is how it’s always supposed to be,” my heart screamed inside.

Outwardly, I asked if my daughter had packed enough magnesium.

A day later Mr. Van Geffen and I were on a campus far from home assembling shelves and wiping down desk drawers.

At the top of a too-tall dorm room bunk, we arranged pillows. Is it still my job to keep her from falling?

I was losing the part of me that knows who I am: her mommy. I promised myself she wouldn’t see me grieve much beyond moist eyes and a too-tight embrace.

Before she slept for the first time in her dorm room, we went to dinner with her roommates and their families. It felt good to have a clear picture of who she will be with in my absence. It felt bad to see the overwhelm behind her sunglasses that only I could pick up on. Who will draw her out and help her talk about her feelings now?

Later, I tried to stay present as the marching band took to the field and the speaker reminded parents to avoid rescuing their new student. Let them solve their own problems!

I knew all this. What I wanted were instructions on how to grieve in a way that wouldn’t take me down.

As the stadium emptied of eight thousand children and their loved ones, I kept wondering: when would the last hug happen? Would I even know it was the last one?

The next morning we left our Airbnb early to go to her dorm room to say goodbye. She shared stories of her first college night. I hugged her for the last time. It was time for her to go. Orientation was starting! I smiled big and brave.

When she was gone, my husband and I lingered in the lounge, like living ghosts, playing a half-hearted game of ping pong. We knew it was odd — two grown adults refusing to leave, clinging onto the final moments of feeling attached by proximity.

Finally, we pushed the heavy institutional doors open and headed out into life without her.

Driving away, I felt numb. Then, irritated at Mr. Van Geffen (for what, I cannot remember), but I recalled our therapist's challenge to lean into each other rather than away during this stressful weekend.

I grabbed his hand and pressed play on my Permission to Be Sad playlist that has helped me feel my grief.

And soon enough, the tears began to stream.

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