Did We Do Enough?
There is a question that has been living in my chest all summer.
Not in a loud, anxious way. More like a quiet hum that shows up in the early morning before the rest of the day takes over. While I am making my match. While I am sitting with my thoughts before the world wakes up.
Did we do enough?
My son is packing up everything he owns and moving somewhere new. New city, new state, student loans, a whole life to build from scratch.
My daughter, on the other hand, is deep in the most intense stretch of her career so far, studying 10 plus hours a day, six days a week, preparing for something that will define everything that comes next for her.
And I am here. Watching. Hands at my sides.
No fixing.
No stepping in.
Just two people I raised, walking straight into the hard stuff.
I make it sound easy. It is not. Inside I am a complete ball of nerves.
But here is what I keep coming back to.
My daughter was a freshman in high school when she made the volleyball team. Out of more than thirty girls who tried out, she earned one of those spots. No connections, no advantage, just her own hard work.
I remember picking her up after the first practice. I could see it on her face before she even reached the car. She got in, slid down in her seat and said "just drive." A few seconds later, the tears she had been holding all afternoon, finally came out.
She told me she was terrible. That her teammates kept correcting her. That she was clearly the worst one on the team and that she should just quit.
I let her cry. And then I asked her a few questions…
Did you get on that team on your own merit? Any connections, any advantage, anything that gave you an edge over the girls who did not make it?
"No, mom."
So you got in on your own. Through your own work?
"Yes, mom."
I looked at her and said: your coach saw something in you. Thirty girls went home without a spot and you are sitting here. What are you going to do with that chance?
She thought about it, wiped her face and in that moment made a resolution.
She went back and played for years. She grew into that team, found her footing, became someone her teammates could count on. And then, her senior year, she made her own decision to try something new. Cross country. A completely different challenge, on her own terms, because she already knew who she was and where she was headed.
That girl is now six days a week, ten hours a day, preparing for the bar exam.
I think about that car ride a lot lately.
Not because I did something remarkable. I did not fix anything. I did not call the coach or smooth the path or make it easier. I just asked her to look at what she had already done and then trusted her to decide what to do next.
Maybe that is the answer to the question I keep asking myself.
We were never supposed to fix it for them. We were supposed to help them see that they could handle it. And then get out of the way.
Did we do enough?
I think we did. And I also think that question never fully goes away. Maybe it is not supposed to. Maybe it is just what it feels like to love someone that much and trust them anyway.
If you are in this season too, I see you. The quiet nervousness, the hands at your sides, the watching and waiting. It is one of the hardest things we do.
And somehow, one of the most beautiful.
If this resonated and you are craving this kind of conversation in real life, the fall retreat is a small group of women gathering in the woods for exactly this. Real talk, good food, no itinerary. Just space to breathe and be honest.
