How Moms Suffer From Senioritis

My plan today was to write about how much fun it’s been meeting fellow She Writes Press authors. There are just over 300, seventeen who live in Chicago. In the last few weeks, I’ve been to two book release events and a social gathering where I’ve reveled in having nerdy author conversations about everything from galley proofs to audiobook technology to stage fright—conversations that, like all good ones, translate to many different life experiences. I wanted to write about some “aha!” moments I’ve had because of these connections.

But that blog will have to wait.

Because when I climbed into my car to head to Michigan this morning for a visit with my mom, something else climbed in with me. I’m driving with it now. It’s a heaviness—a bleak, pervasive slice of sadness that insists on riding shotgun.

Whenever I start to gather my thoughts about what I planned to write, this sadness nudges me and causes me to veer off in another direction.

Here is what wants my attention, and here is what I don’t want to dwell on: My son is graduating next week.

I want to be excited for him, proud of his accomplishments, and enthusiastically hopeful about his future prospects. And yes, I am all of those things.

Just not at the moment.

In this moment, I feel lonely and forlorn, as grief-stricken as if he were already gone. I suppose the sadness picked the best time to catch a ride with me. As I drive, I have no option but to sit with it, even though my mind wants to rush in and make it go away. I think of my friends who have been through this and feel a strong urge to call them, like a lifeline, and ask how they managed to get through this time of letting go.

Is it a coincidence that this strikes as I’m driving toward my own mom? I remember leaving home at eighteen with barely a backward glance. I have not lived in the same city as my family ever since. I never thought much about how that felt for my own mother. In the same way, I don’t want my son worrying about my feelings. I want him to dive headfirst into his life.

I know I need to do the same. I’ve started by reaching out to my new author friends. I recently met one woman, Kathryn, for coffee when she was traveling through Chicago. It was wonderful to share the doubts and, in some cases, the downright terror that comes with publishing a memoir.

“I don’t think your feelings are about your book,” she said. “I think it’s about saying goodbye to your son.”

This is what I love about writers. They see beyond events into the truth of things. They share stories that remind us that what they lived through, we can too and that we’re not alone.

I’ll write more another time about this wonderful sisterhood of writers and the publishing process and how grateful I am to be experiencing it all. But for now, I’ve got some crying to do. And some letting go.

With any luck, I can drop this sadness off at the next stop a little lighter and a little more ready for the next leg of my journey.