Nervous laughter, pristine notebooks, a chill in the morning air: my oldest kids went back to school today. Yes, they actually went. As in, drove to a building seven miles away where they’ll spend the next seven hours with their peers and a handful of hard-working adults.
I’m excited to have a quieter day ahead of me, but more than that, I am excited for them to have this taste of normalcy.
It’s hard when you can’t fix things for them, when you can’t assure them that things will get better before too long, when you’re in the dark as much as they are.
But sending them out the door this morning gives me hope. They are excited and nervous and impatient. They let me take their picture on the front step and even smile.
After they leave, I can’t resist but to dig up a photo from 2008: the same two smiles on the first day of pre-school and kindergarten. How does that happen? Twelve years gone in a blink.
And that’s when it dawns on me. I don’t have to wring my hands about what I can and can’t fix, about whether their high school experience will be overshadowed by isolation and uncertainty. Wringing my hands will not produce more positive outcomes.
Instead, I can smile and enjoy their first-day eagerness and optimism. I can enjoy how the sun hits their faces as they stand next to the pink-hued hydrangea.
The earth continues to turn, and I don’t want to blink away another twelve years. No, let’s not do that math. Instead, let’s enjoy this moment of nervous laughter, pristine notebooks, and car keys clutched in a hand eager to go.
What are you holding tightly that might benefit from a looser grip? What does the invitation of release offer you?
I’m excited to have a quieter day ahead of me, but more than that, I am excited for them to have this taste of normalcy.
It’s hard when you can’t fix things for them, when you can’t assure them that things will get better before too long, when you’re in the dark as much as they are.
But sending them out the door this morning gives me hope. They are excited and nervous and impatient. They let me take their picture on the front step and even smile.
After they leave, I can’t resist but to dig up a photo from 2008: the same two smiles on the first day of pre-school and kindergarten. How does that happen? Twelve years gone in a blink.
And that’s when it dawns on me. I don’t have to wring my hands about what I can and can’t fix, about whether their high school experience will be overshadowed by isolation and uncertainty. Wringing my hands will not produce more positive outcomes.
Instead, I can smile and enjoy their first-day eagerness and optimism. I can enjoy how the sun hits their faces as they stand next to the pink-hued hydrangea.
The earth continues to turn, and I don’t want to blink away another twelve years. No, let’s not do that math. Instead, let’s enjoy this moment of nervous laughter, pristine notebooks, and car keys clutched in a hand eager to go.
What are you holding tightly that might benefit from a looser grip? What does the invitation of release offer you?
 | Jessica Curtis is a professional life coach who helps people cultivate intention and live from a place of meaning and authenticity. If you think you could benefit from working with Jessica or want to invite her to work with your group, reach out to start a conversation. |
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