Senior Year Isn’t Just About Them — It’s About Us Too

There are so many “last times” no one warns you about. The last homecoming. The last football game. The last holiday concert. The last time you rush out the door because your kid forgot their marching band shoes (again).

This whole school year has been a fast, beautiful unraveling — and I knew his senior year wasn’t going to be a cake walk. I braced myself for it, really. Between marching band, homecoming, recitals, competitions, dating, preparing for college, university campus tours, and senior parties (and let me say — I’m so grateful his school made every effort to celebrate these kids) — you’d think I’d be all cried out by now.

But I’m not.

What I didn’t realize until too late was that last summer… was my last full summer vacation with my youngest son.

Let that sink in.

My last summer with him as mine before the world begins to shape him in new ways.

Once he crosses that graduation stage, I’ll only have nine more days with him until he’s off touring the country with The Madison Scouts for Drum Corps International. It’s an incredible opportunity. And yes, I’m bursting with pride.

But if I’m honest?

It also doesn’t feel fair.

It doesn’t feel fair that I don’t get more time. That our family dinners will become photos I scroll through. That I won’t hear his trumpet late at night or trip over his shoes in the hallway.

And then, like clockwork, that voice chimes in —

“You know life’s not fair.”

To which I say — SHUT. UP.

Yes, I know I’m blessed. I know I’ve had more time with my son than many are granted. I know there are families dealing with far more, and others who’ve had far less. But that doesn’t mean this ache in my chest isn’t valid.

This is the sacred mess of motherhood.

We hold pride and grief in the same breath.

We smile and weep at once.

We celebrate them — and still long for one more moment that looks like before.

If you’re feeling this too — that swirl of sadness and joy, fear and excitement — you’re not alone.

And if no one else has told you this: it’s okay to feel it all.

You are not dramatic. You are not ungrateful. You are a mom in transition — and transition is always tender.

So as this chapter closes, I’m choosing to be present for all of it. The big moments, the tiny ones, and the ones that knock the breath out of me when I least expect it.

Because this is what it means to love someone who’s learning how to leave.

And that?

That’s the greatest privilege of all.

I’d love to hear from you! Have thoughts, questions, or just need another mama’s perspective? Drop me a line and let’s connect—together, we can navigate this wild journey of motherhood and figure it out one step at a time.

Love Mom

Davindia