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There's a moment no one prepares you for as a parent.
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It doesn't come with balloons or a ceremony, no announcement,
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no warning. It's quiet, almost invisible. It's the moment you
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realize they don't need you the way they used to,
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not because you failed them, but because you succeeded. And
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somehow that can break your heart and heal it at
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the exact same time. Welcome back to We are the Hansens.
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I'm Maya, and if you're new here, welcome. This podcast
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is about the real stuff, family, love, relationships, the moments
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that shape us, especially the ones no one talks about enough,
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the messy middle, the tender transitions, the things we feel
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but rarely say out loud because we're afraid people won't understand,
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or worse that they'll judge us for feeling them at all.
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Today we're talking about letting go as kids grow up.
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Not the big letting go like when they leave for
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college or get married or move across the country, but
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the thousand tiny letting goes that happen long before that,
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the ones that don't come all at once, not dramatically,
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but slowly, quietly, in pieces so small you almost miss them.
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Until one day you turn around and realize everything's different
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if you're raising littles, if you're watching teens spread their wings,
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or if you're standing in the strange in between space
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where your house somehow feels fuller and emptier at the
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same time. This episode is for you, and I'll be
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honest with you. This one's personal. I've been living in
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the space lately, watching my kids become who they're going
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to be, feeling proud and heartbroken in the same breath,
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celebrating their independence while secretly wishing I could freeze them
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right here, right now. I've been thinking a lot about
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what it means to let go when everything in you
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wants to hold on, not because you want to control
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them or stop them from growing, but because you love
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them so much that the thought of them not needing
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you feels like losing something you can't get back. So
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let's talk about it. Let's talk about the parts of
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parenting that feel like grief even when nothing's actually wrong,
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because maybe, just maybe, if we name it together, it
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won't feel so lonely. I remember when the house was
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loud in a very specific way, not just noise, but
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the kind of chaos that means lifeless, happening, the kind
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that told you everyone was home and safe and exactly
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where they were supposed to be. Little feet running down
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the hallways at speeds that defied psychics. How is it
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possible for such small humans to make so much noise?
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Toys clattering across the floor, always underfoot, always exactly where
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you'd step in the dark. I used to think I
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never miss stepping on legos at three in the morning.
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I was wrong. Cries that needed immediate attention, needs that
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couldn't wait. Mama, Mama, mama, that word echoing throughout every room,
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pulling you in ten directions at once, hands reaching for me,
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always reaching up, Mama, Up, hold me, carry me, don't leave,
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stay right here. Back. Then motherhood felt heavy in my
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arms and lighten my heart. The weight of their bodies,
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the softness of their hair, that specific smell only your
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own children have, the one that changes as they grow.
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But you never forget the way They'd fall asleep on
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my chest, and I'd be pinned there for hours, afraid
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to move, afraid to wake them. My arm's going numb,
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but not caring, because this moment was everything. My arms
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would ache, my back would scream. I'd shift positions, trying
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to get comfortable, and they'd stir, and I'd freeze, holding
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my breath, praying they'd settle back down, but I'd stay,
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even though my body was exhausted. Those moments felt eternal
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and fleeting all at once, like trying to hold water
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in your hands. Every day was exhausting, every night fell endless,
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the bedtime routines that stretched on forever. One more book,
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one more song, one more glass of water, one more hug,
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one more I love you, Just one more minute, Mama, please,
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And you'd give it to them, because how could you not,
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even when you were running on empty, even when you
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had nothing left. I remember thinking, will I ever sleep again?
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Will my body ever feel like mine? Will I ever
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finish a cup of coffee while it's still hot? Will
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I ever have a conversation that doesn't get interrupted? Seventeen
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times I remember counting minutes until bedtime, watching the clock,
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willing time to speed up, bargaining with the universe for
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just five minutes of quiet, and then, once they were
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finally asleep, standing at their door in the dark, watching
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them sleep, watching their little chest rise and fall, their
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faces peaceful and perfect, wondering how could I miss someone
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who was still right there, wanting the day to end,
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and never wanting it to end, counting down to bedtime,
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and then wishing I could rewind and do it all
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over again. People would say it to me all the time,
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strangers in grocery stores, older women with kind eyes and
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knowing smiles. They'd look at my kids, messy and loud
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and hanging off the shopping cart, and they'd say, enjoy it.
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It goes so fast. And I wanted to believe them,
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I really did, But when you're in the middle of it,
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fast feels impossible. The day's drag, long and sticky and full,
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full of tantrums and messes and negotiations and power struggles
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over things that don't matter, but somehow feel like life
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or death in the moment, But the years, the years
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vanish like smoke. One day you're buckling them into car seats,
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checking and rechecking the straps, adjusting the mirrors. The next
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day they're adjusting the mirrors themselves because their legs are
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longer than yours. When did that happen? One day you
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realize you're no longer picking them up automatically, not because
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you don't want to, not because the love has changed,
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but because they're suddenly too big, too heavy, too tall,
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too old for that. And somewhere along the way, without
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you noticing, they stop asking, and no one tells you that.
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The last time you carry your child, you won't know
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it's the last time. There's no ceremony for that goodbye,
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no warning, just one ordinary Tuesday or Thursday, when you
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set them down and walk away and you never picked
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them up again. You didn't know. You couldn't have known,
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because if you had no one, you would have held
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on longer. You would have memorized that weight, you would
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have said something marked it. Somehow, that's what gets me.
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All those lasts happened without announcement. The last time they
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fit perfectly in your arms, the last time they called
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you Mama instead of mom, the last time they believed
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in magic without question, the last time they needed you
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to check for monsters under the bed. You don't get
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to know. Keep moving forward, and one day you look
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back and realize it's gone. I think about all the
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things I took for granted, The way they climbed into
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bed with us on Sunday mornings, wiggling their way between us,
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cold feet pressing against my legs, The way they'd hold
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my hand crossing the street without me asking, The way
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they'd show me everything they made at school, so proud,
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so eager for my approval. The way they practice words,
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trying so hard to say them right, looking at me
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to confirm they got it. I remember thinking these phases
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would last forever, that there would always be another bedtime story,
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another scraped knee to kiss, another four to build in
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the living room. But there is it. There's a last
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time for everything, and you never see it coming. It's
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only in hindsight that you realize that ordinary Tuesday was
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actually extraordinary because it was the last one. Now I
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try to be more present, to notice the things that
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are still here, to appreciate what we have right now,
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instead of mooring what's already gone or worrying about what's coming.
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But it's hard because even as I'm holding on to
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this moment, I can feel it slipping away. I can
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see something changing in real time, growing, evolving, becoming. And
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I'm so proud, but I'm also so sad, and both
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of those things are true at the same time. Letting
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go doesn't begin when they move out. It doesn't even
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begin when they're graduated or get their own license. It
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begins in tiny, almost invisible moments, moments so small you
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might not even notice them the first time they happen,
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but they add up, they accumulate, and one day you
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wake up and realize everything has shifted. The first time
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they walk to school without looking back, you stand there
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on the porch, watching, waiting for them to turn around
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and wave like they always have, but they don't. They
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just keep walking, and you tell yourself, it's good, it's progress,
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it's independence. But part of you wants to make them
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turn around, just to see their face one more time
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before they disappear around the corner. The first time they
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close their bedroom door when they used to leave it open,
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that closed door feels like a statement, like they're creating
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a world in there that doesn't include you, and you
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have to respect it. You have to let them have
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their privacy, their space, their own thoughts that aren't automatically
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shared with you anymore. When they stop asking you to
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tie their shoes, when they learn how to do their
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own hair, when they pack their own lunch and you
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don't even know what they're eating anymore, when they don't
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need help with homework, or worse, when they need help
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and don't ask because they'd rather figure it out themselves
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or ask someone else, anyone else. When they start correcting you,
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when they roll their eyes at your jokes, when they
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say things like I've got it, mom, I can do
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it myself. You don't have to, and those words you've
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been waiting to hear for years, those words that mean
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you've done your job. They're supposed to make you proud,
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and they do, they really do, But they also land
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somewhere tender, somewhere you didn't know you were still protecting,
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because tendance sounds like success. Independence is what you've been
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working towards since the day they were born. But it
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feels like loss. It feels like watching them walk away
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from you, one small step at a time. And you're
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supposed to cheer, you're supposed to celebrate, and you do,
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but sometimes you do it with tears in your eyes
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that you hope they don't see. They start forming opinions
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that don't sound like yours. They develop taste, you don't understand.
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Music that sounds like noise to you but means everything
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to them. Books and movies and shows that you haven't
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watched together. Friends whose names you can't keep straight, whose
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faces you've only seen in photos on their phone. They
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have inside jokes. You're not part of references, you don't
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get a whole language that developed when you weren't looking,
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And slowly, gently you move from being the center of
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their universe to being part of it. Still important, still loved,
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still needed, just differently, just not everything. And that shift
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is so gradual you almost don't notice it happening until
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one day you're standing in the kitchen and they're telling
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you about their day, and you realize you only understand
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half of what they're saying, not because they're leaving you out,
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but because they have a life now that exists beyond you,
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a life that's theirs. That's when it hits you. This
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is what you were preparing them for. This is the
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goal for them to not need you, for them to
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be whole and complete and capable without you. That was
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always the point. But knowing that doesn't make it easier,
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It just makes it necessary. The house changes as kids grow,
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not all at once, but gradually, like season, shifting so
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slowly you don't notice until suddenly you're cold and realize
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summer's over, and you miss the exact moment it turned
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to fall. It gets quieter, not peaceful, just different. The
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noise that used to drive you crazy becomes the noise
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you miss. The sound of arguing over who gets the remote,
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the sound of laughter from another room, the sound of
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the footsteps running up and down the stairs, the sound
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of life happening all around you, loud and messy and constant.
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Now there are hours of quiet, long stretches where no
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one needs anything, where you can hear yourself think, where
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you can actually finish a task without interruption. And you
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should love this. You spent years dreaming of this. But
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instead the quiet feels too loud. It feels like something's missing.
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Bedrooms stay clean longer, beds stay made, toys stay put,
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Lights stay off during the day because no one's home.
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They're at school, at practice, at friends' houses, outliving their lives.
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The fridge stays fuller longer, because suddenly they're eating out
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with friends more than they're eating at home. The pantry
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stays stopped, the laundry pile shrinks. All those things you've
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complained about. I'm drowning in laundry. I can't keep food
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in this house I just clean that you'd give anything
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to complain about them again. You stop stepping on toys
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in the dark. You stopped finding socks in weird places.
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You stop discovering empty juice box is behind the couch,
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And somehow that small relief, the one that you prayed
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for when you were exhausted at two in the morning,
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when you were cleaning up yet another spill, when you
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were picking up the same toys for the seventeenth time,
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it makes you a little sad. You start standing in
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doorways longer than necessary, looking at rooms that feel frozen
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in time, their childhood bedroom that still has posters from
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when they were twelve, even though they're sixteen. Now you
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know you should take them down. You know they've outgrown them,
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but you can't not yet, because once you change that room,
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you can't go back. I found myself lingering in rooms
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that used to feel chaotic, running my hand along walls
237
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that still show the marks of their growing pencil lines,
238
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tracking height, scuff marks from shoes. They've outgrown that one
239
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spot where they drew on the wall and cram when
240
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they were three, and you were so mad, But now
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you can't bring yourself to paint over it, touching walls
242
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covered in memories, hearing echoes of laughter that aren't there anymore,
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The way they used to chase each other through the