Raising Them Was Hard. Letting Go Might Be Worse.

From storytime to space, I’m still their mom.

Looking back, there were signals - some subtle, some loud and messy - that my role as a mom was shifting.

Raising three boys? That’s DEFCON 1 parenting. They do weird shit, and I’ve said some even weirder things. Like during California’s COVID lockdown, when my two most feral sons wanted to box… so I wrapped their hands in duct-taped T-shirts and sent them outside with just one rule: no faces, no ER visits.

Now, I’ve got two over 18 and one still at home. I’m not in the “keep them alive” phase anymore. I’m in the parenting twilight zone where silence, distance, and emotional landmines are the new norm.

And yet, I still flash back to that first night home from the hospital. My oldest peed, pooped, and spit up all at once, and I stood frozen, unsure where to even start. I felt clueless then. And honestly? I feel even more clueless now.

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Like the night I reached up to feel his forehead and realized he was taller than me. That one hit me in the chest. I wasn’t the towering protector anymore. He was becoming his own.

Then came his first heartbreak. I saw it coming. I kept quiet (mostly). And when it inevitably fell apart (three times) I listened to him cry and ask, “Why is this happening?” I wanted to scream, call the girl, fix it all. But I didn’t. I just held space. And it gutted me.

Another time, I clashed with my middle son over a list of things I thought were reasonable. I didn’t say I was disappointed but my tone did. He pulled away. Then he went completely silent for a week. I cried every day. Stared at my phone like it owed me an apology. That silence? It was him setting a boundary. And it was the moment I knew: he was breaking free, and I was still holding on too tightly.

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Parenting almost-adults turns everything upside down.

The old rules: hover, manage, protect don’t apply anymore. My reminders? Ignored. My opinions? Barely tolerated. My role? Rewritten.

What no one tells you about parenting grown kids is how deafening the silence can be. The way they nod to appease you and then do whatever they want. The way they can go days without checking in, seemingly fine, while you’re missing them so hard it hurts in your body.

Then there’s the whiplash. One minute, I’m background noise. The next, I’m getting 17 missed calls at 1 a.m. from kid number 1 who’s on the side of the road with a car that won’t run. I call back. We stay on the phone for an hour. He’s safe, sure. But I get the full force of his frustration because I’m the safe one. The punching bag. The one they know won’t leave.

And yet, there are bright spots. Like the night I hit the bar with my son and his friends for his 21st. We both maybe drank a little too much. The next morning was rough. But we laughed. Or every once in a while, when my middle son flashes his favorite picture of him and me at his preschool’s Mother’s Day brunch because it was a time he had me all to himself. There’s also the matching tattoos I have with each of my big boys that serve as constant reminders of them. There are breakfast invites. Random check-ins. Little lifelines of connection.

But let’s be clear: parenting doesn’t get easier. That idea? Total bullshit.

When they were little, I worried about scraped knees and eating enough vegetables. Now I lie awake wondering if they’re safe at bars, on planes, behind the wheel. The stakes are higher. The consequences, bigger. And I have zero control.

I’m a Type-A, list-making, text-you-a-reminder (or 7) kind of mom. But now? I’m learning to unlearn. Because they don’t need managing: they need space. They need a soft place to land. Someone who listens more than lectures (and that is NOT me). Someone who gently holds up the mirror when they need it.

Letting go of control is brutal. And with it comes grief. I miss their smell. I miss hours and hours spent at the park and the endless “Mommy, look at me!” moments. I miss their messy rooms. Their laundry. Their bickering.

Now I second-guess texts. Replay conversations. Feel guilty for every rushed bedtime story, cut-short bubble bath and “hurry up” I uttered with obvious frustration. And I carry the weight of knowing they sometimes paid the price for my burnout because I was solo-parenting while grinding full-time.

This shift is real. And so is the work I’m doing now to be the parent they each need at this stage.

Here’s what that looks like:

● Be present.

● Own my missteps.

● Apologize when needed.

● Float, not fix.

Because they’re not little anymore. But they’re still my kids. And I’m still learning how to love them through the letting go.

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When did it hit you, that moment your parenting role flipped?

Comment here or email me at realgirlsguide55@gmail.com. I’m collecting stories for my book, and sharing might be the release you didn’t know you needed.

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