What I will be without her.

American mothers are not supposed to say these things.

Thank you so much for supporting me and my work as an independent writer.

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It started with a text, a funny, simple text that was so very Thalia.

But the thing that made me the most emotional, the thing that made this next chapter of parenting seem real is what happened next.

Or really, what did not happen.

But first, graduation.

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High school graduation was all of the things with all of the sobbing—remember, that’s what I do—just as parents everywhere have experienced forever. But in a school with so many first-generation rising college students, the day felt particularly meaningful, helped along by the exuberant whoops and hollers of multi-generational families from four of the five boroughs.

If I’ve overlooked any students from Staten Island, man, more power to you for making that hike to Queens for school every day.

It was a far cry from my own public high school graduation in the burbs, with all that polite, noiseless fingertips-to-palms clapping for kids who were raised knowing all eight Ivies in order from most to least desirable.

(Sorry for the stereotype, WASPS of Westchester, but you know it’s true.)

Back at the apartment, we were all grateful to be together for the first time in ages—four grandparents, two parents, four kids there to celebrate one graduate together over diner food delivery: Two turkey sandwiches on rye with coleslaw and Russian dressing. A few burgers. A grilled cheese.

Later, a cheesecake I had delivered from Juniors when I realized the day before that I hadn’t even thought about a cake.

Bless you NYC, for allowing us to have absolutely anything delivered at any time.

It’s been an overwhelming three weeks and forgive me Thalia, I just wasn’t able to remember to pre-order a fancy dessert item. Or streamers. Or a catered lunch. Or those gold helium balloons spelling out 2-0-2-3. Not that you’d have wanted those anyway.

Instead, the other three kids created their own silly cards and posters that they hung on the front door for her, and that turned out to be exactly perfect.

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“Really, what did not happen”

This week, I found myself crying again.

(Did I mention that’s what I do? Ask my kids. They think it’s hilarious.)

What did not happen on Tuesday, was my receipt of a text from my first-born daughter saying “Here!” as she might typically do.

I did get a text, but not an explicit assurance of her safe arrival on arrival to South Station on Amtrak, or a request for help navigating public transit or a reminder of the dorm address where she was headed for two nights of college orientation. She had all that down herself.

She texted me her observations:

I laughed, and responded that she couldn’t call it a subway anymore, in Boston it’s a T.

She wrote back with a characteristically droll response:

I can call it what I want
Let me live my life, mom

And isn’t that the thesis right there.

She’s about to live her life.

Her life.

It hit me harder than the acceptance letter, harder than graduation, harder than putting down the first scary tuition deposit. (Though that one still hits hard.)

She is about to meet people whose parents I don’t know, sit in classes of professors I can’t picture, and form friendships with people I’ve never met who will be extremely important to her for some time, or even for all time.

She will learn where the no-fee ATMs are located, make her own doctor appointments for colds I may never hear about, find her own part-time work, figure out which laundry detergent she prefers, and whether she wants to eat salad at lunch even when the pizza is sitting right there.

She will not be texting me to let me know what time she’ll be home on a Saturday night.

“You raise them, you send them off…and then you pray,” my dad said on the phone last night.

My daughter is on the cusp of actual legal adulthood right now, able to make a lot of new decisions on her own for the first time.

Not that her family won’t always be here for her, but we won’t be there for her.

In living her life, my daughter will find who she is. And she will find who she is without me.

That’s how it’s supposed to be.

What I hadn’t expected is that now, here I am, now having to process who I will be without her.

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We’re not supposed to say this.

For the past 18 years I was highly conscious of not “losing myself” in my children, whatever that means.

But what about all the ways we’ve found ourselves in them? Can we talk about that?

In our current culture, moms—especially professional, high-achieving women— are not really supposed to admit that our identities have been informed by motherhood. Some do. But more often, we suppress our parenting obligations altogether. So we talk to our colleagues (and friends and neighbors) about about books and Breaking Bad, about world events and music, the cool art piece we thrifted, the exhibit at Brooklyn Museum, ooh that necklace is great and love your shoes and did you see that hilarious meme, the one about the Theranos lady?

(Note that I am not shy about talking about my kids. I mean, if my co-workers can talk about their dogs, I figure I can talk about my kids.)

I think that when we say “don’t lose yourself in your children” it’s a reminder not to say “I’m nothing if not a mom.” Or like my late grandmother advised me when I was pregnant, “don’t be that new mom who’s a mess with her hair all over the place while her babies are dressed perfectly. Take care of yourself.”

Which is fair.

I would never say “I’m nothing if not a mom.” I was a whole, sentient, self-actualized person before having kids, and I am a whole, sentient, self-actualized person now, only in new ways that were informed greatly by parenting.

Motherhood changed so much about me—my priorities, my listening skills, my capacity for patience, my dedication to activism, my entire perspective on the world. How could it not?

And that all started with the birth of my first daughter, the one who’s ready to live the next chapter of her life without me there to see it all.

When I ask myself, who will I be without her? I’m not conflating it with “what will I do without her? It’s just my grateful acknowledgement of all the ways she helped me evolve into the person I am today.

In that way, this next chapter coming up is not just Thalia’s. It’s also mine to write, and I want to honor both of those transitions.

We all know our kids are going to grow up one day.

How marvelous to know that we get to keep growing right along with them.

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Thalia came home last night, giddy with stories about orientation. She talked about the cool friends and advisors she met, the bubble tea places she found, her plans to see enough hockey games to get the free jersey, her dorm-shopping needs, the story of her foray into Boston on the T with new friends to find comics.

Yes.

She called it the T.

I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge that yesterday while my daughter was at college orientation and I was head down working, lost in the swirl of of bits and bytes and words on a screen, I got word that The Supreme Court had struck down affirmative action.

She is the one who texted me the news.

“what the %*&! this is messed up,” she wrote.

To say the least.

I’m looking forward to seeing what she is going to do (along with her peers) to help create a more equitable world, from the campus of a relatively elite college. Especially as a white student who knows that she’s benefitted in ways known and unknown from the privilege of her race and her upbringing.

Whiteness has always factored into college opportunities, even before admissions sees a single grade or extracurricular activity; that’s because names like “John Roberts” have been statistically better received on resumes and applications than names like “Ketanji Brown Jackson” or “Sonya Sotamayor.” But there’s so much more to it.

One thing I can personally do as a white woman: Share a list of excellent articles I think are helpful if you’re struggling to understand the SCOTUS minority dissent and the problems with the premise of “colorblindness.” That will be coming tomorrow.

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