Letting Go, Holding On, with a Full Goodwill Bank
As the seasons shift and my children prepare to step into new chapters, I find myself reflecting on the quiet evolution happening within me. This newsletter is a way to honor that transition. It’s not a guide or a how-to. It’s a love letter to the in-between moments: the ache of letting go, the grace of holding on, and the small, intentional ways we stay connected even as life moves forward.
I’m writing this for anyone navigating change as parents, caregivers, friends, or simply humans in motion. My hope is that these reflections offer comfort, companionship, and a reminder that love, when tended with care, stretches beautifully across time and distance.
A Bittersweet Milestone
This month brings a bittersweet milestone in my journey as a parent. One child is packing for another year of university, and the other is preparing to begin life in a new city. The house already feels different, quieter in the mornings and, slower in the evenings.
The rhythm we’ve known is shifting, and my heart is learning to stretch across miles, even before they’ve walked out the door. There’s a small grace tucked into the ache: they’ll both be moving to the same city. Different paths, same destination. It feels as though the universe has left me a thread of comfort, something to hold onto as I let go.
Learning To Ride Waves
I’ve been sitting with this transition, letting it wash over me in waves, some gentle and some sharp. Mindfulness helps here, not as a cure-all but as a quiet companion. It isn’t always easy to stay present when the heart aches or the mind races ahead. But I try to notice each wave as it comes, not rushing to fix it and not bracing against it. Just naming it. Feeling it. Letting it be.
This practice doesn’t make the ache disappear. It simply offers me a way to meet it with honesty. To say: this is hard, and that’s okay. Emotions, like seasons, don’t follow our schedules. They pass when they’re ready. And in the meantime, mindfulness reminds me that I can soften around the discomfort rather than harden against it. That I can breathe through the uncertainty and trust that clarity will come, not all at once, but in its own time.
Of course, even imagining the goodbye stirs a deep ache, a tug at the heart that whispers, not yet. But kindness to myself reminds me that it’s okay to feel this way. Change stirs the nervous system, and meeting it with gentleness allows my body to soften, my breath to deepen, and my heart to stay open.
Deposits in the Goodwill Bank
Over the past few months, I’ve been making quiet deposits into what I call the goodwill bank. Not grand gestures, just small, steady offerings of care:
Waking up early to give them rides
Tossing forgotten laundry into the dryer
Keeping the house quiet so they can sleep in
Sharing my own mistakes and regrets with the intention to connect, not to teach
Passing down family stories to help them feel rooted in a lineage of love, strengths, and imperfections
These moments are meant to be felt. The goodwill bank isn’t about keeping score. It’s born from pride, joy, and the quiet hope that when the silence settles in, they’ll feel the strength of our connection. That they’ll carry with them not just the care I offered in the everyday, but the deeper gifts too: the stories that root them, the honesty that invites trust, and the steady presence that says: you belong, you are loved, and you come from something strong.
Lessons They’ve Given Me
And here’s the truth: my children haven’t just shaped my days, they’ve shaped me. They’ve been my greatest teachers, offering gifts that don’t come wrapped in paper:
The reminder that I am their mirror, and how I show up matters
The motivation to get my own life in order so I can be the steady ground they stand on
The challenge to look honestly at my patterns and grow beyond them
Their presence has asked me repeatedly to rise to my better self. And in that way, my goodwill bank isn’t just for them— it’s also for me. For the kind of parent, person, and human I want to be.
I’ve also found myself reflecting on how relationships evolve, not just with our children but with ourselves. Parenting doesn’t end when they leave home; it softens and reshapes. The daily check-ins become weekly texts. Shared dinners turn into planned visits. Advice is offered more gently, and only when asked.
It’s easy to let the busyness of life blur the edges of connection. But I want to stay present now, while they’re still here. I want them to feel the steadiness of my love. I want them to know that distance doesn’t dilute care; it just asks us to be more intentional. And more than anything, I hope they carry with them the quiet confidence that they’re never alone. That reaching out is always welcome. That our bond is strong enough to stretch.
Questions for Your Own Season
This season is asking me to celebrate their growing independence while honouring my own evolution. Because change doesn’t just happen to them; it happens to me too. And in that, there’s a shared human experience: the truth that all of us, in different ways and at different times, are learning to navigate transition. Whether it’s a child leaving home, a new chapter unfolding, or an identity quietly shifting, change is both inevitable and tender. We are not alone in this balancing act between holding on and letting go. It’s part of what connects us.
And maybe that’s the quiet beauty of it: we are all becoming, together.
As you stand in your own season of change, you might pause with questions like these:
What small, everyday deposits could you make into your own goodwill bank—with loved ones, and with yourself?
In this season of change, who do you want to be in the lives of those you love?
What gifts—inner strengths, perspectives, or wisdom—have you gained through this relationship or chapter?
What lessons will you carry forward, and how might they shape the way you love and connect next?
May we all remember that love can travel any distance, and that the bonds we tend with care will always find their way back home.