Ten days after I moved my daughter Ellie into her college dorm room, I wondered why I couldn’t stop crying. I felt embarrassed as tears appeared suddenly, unwelcome in professional moments. Every day, they surprised me, like an ankle sprain that you hoped was gone. Too many times, I found myself looking at my reflection in the mirror, dabbing at smeared mascara.
The tears also surprised me because my sadness was intermixed with relief and joy. For months, our family lived in a combination of hopeful anticipation and nervous uncertainty about whether independent living would even be possible for our daughter, who has significant health challenges. Launching kids like Ellie to college is no small feat. Even though any parent might be nervous about their teen’s adjustment to college, I notice a special kind of anxiety for parents whose kids have faced mental or physical health challenges. They hold questions like, “Will my teen be able to manage their mental health on their own? How can I trust that they will be okay, especially if I can’t see them on a daily basis anymore? What if they revisit the depths of darkness?”
Our emotions about our teen’s launch may or may not mirror the experiences of parents of neurotypical teens. While for some parents, the sight of their absent teen’s empty bedroom feels like an aching reminder, it’s actually an encouragement for me. It’s a sign that Ellie isn’t languishing in there with depression or a chronic illness, but rather out in the world. While some parents lament the quietness of their home without their teen’s friends, I’m thankful that I’m not living with the echoes of Ellie’s loneliness anymore, as she builds her own community at college. Although like any parent, I long for Ellie to visit, the fact that she prefers to stay at school brings me hope, because it’s a sign of success for a kid who has never wanted to leave home.
I should be happy, I tell myself. My daughter likes her new college. She’s adjusting much better this year compared to last year’s failed college experiment. We worked so hard to help her get to this place. These tears don’t make any sense, yet they are endless.
Unfortunately, reason does not stop tears. Sadness doesn’t have to make sense. It just is.
Glimpses of Other Parents
Every parent processes the grief of a child leaving home differently. As I consider my friends with college kids, each one has a unique experience of dealing with their child’s absence, especially those whose kids have faced mental health challenges.
Cameron and her husband both had moments of intense weeping as they said goodbye to their daughter Rachel, a freshman at a college on the other side of the country (read Cameron’s story here). Yet they are also hopeful that Rachel, who has overcome depression and an eating disorder, will finally develop the authentic friendships that felt so elusive to her in high school.
Britta has many sad moments, punctuated by all the big and little reminders of her daughter’s absence. She worries about how to support her daughter’s eating disorder recovery from afar, after a recent diagnosis of anorexia. Britta has worked hard to partner with her daughter’s therapist and the college health center to find solutions that seem to be working. But she can’t shake the reality that if her daughter’s anorexia worsens, she’ll need to withdraw from college.
Dana just sent her only child back to the college that he adores. She is still grieving, a year later, because her son has embraced independence to such a degree that she feels that her identity as a mom has shifted significantly. However, last spring, her son struggled so deeply with anxiety that he barely slept for months. As someone who has faced mental health challenges herself, Dana offered her son incredible support. Although her son’s mental health has stabilized, Dana still carries the weight of worry alongside sadness about their changing relationship.
Sarah just launched two sons (one freshman, one junior) to two different colleges across the country, just as her sixteen-year-old daughter acquired her driver’s license and a busier-than-ever social life. Even though Sarah feels thankful that her teens are thriving, especially after mental health challenges for her older son and an intensely emotional season for her younger son, she struggles to adjust to her new family realities. How does she transition from one season in which her children needed her support almost constantly, into one in which they barely see each other?
Momancholy
For many parents, it’s confusing to find the right words to capture our emotions around the experience of launching teens into independent living. Grief may feel almost too heavy, especially when it’s counterbalanced by the pride and joy of seeing our teen thrive. Worry might fit, if our teen is struggling in familiar ways, if we see them making poor choices, or when they stop texting us back… But what if we’re worrying just because it’s what we’ve always done? We might feel overwhelmingly sad, and then feel guilty about that sadness, especially if our teen seems so happy. We might feel hurt when our teen doesn’t have time to talk with us (but we know we can’t tell them that), even though we’re also grateful that they’ve built a new life. We might feel lonely in the absence of our teen’s companionship. Overall, we might feel emotionally exhausted and mentally drained without understanding why. After all, shouldn’t we have more energy, now that we don’t have as many parenting duties?
Author Whitney Fleming does a beautiful job capturing this strange dissonance, this confusing collection of emotions. As she launched her third teen to college, Fleming introduced the term “momancholy.” She writes, “momancholy, like its derivative word melancholy…it’s a “depression of spirits, feeling pensive for what was, an abnormal state of sadness for things past… It’s grief and gratitude, joy and heartbreak, love and sorrow.”
Challenges Parents Like Us Face
For those of us who launch teens with mental or physical health challenges, we may experience “momancholy” on steroids.
Sometimes, our teen’s growing up experience has looked different than a neurotypical teen, in terms of meeting developmental milestones, developing friendships, or embracing healthy independence. We may have an extra dose of concern about our teen’s ability to make a life for themselves (since they’ve crashed and burned before) as well as questions about whether their new community will welcome them with kindness and love. Who will catch our teens when they fall, the way we always have?
Some of us have served not just as a parent but also a primary caregiver for our teen in their health challenges. Deep down, we may have become so accustomed to our roles as caregivers that we aren’t quite sure who we are without them. On the outside, we celebrate that our teens have healed enough that they don’t need our caregiving anymore. But on the inside, we might feel so disoriented and confused that we don’t know what to do with ourselves. We might experience a profound sense of emptiness when we expect to feel relief.
Finding our Way Forward
It has helped me to admit that parenting Ellie from afar feels messy. It feels confusing to know when to trust Ellie to find her way, and when to offer more direction. This kind of parenting requires an even deeper trust that my neurodiverse teen will turn out okay, even when she struggles, even when we don’t talk for days, even when it seems like she is regressing. I also believe there’s an invitation to be gentle with ourselves. How could any of us know how to do this parenting thing perfectly, especially when it comes to launching teens into adulthood? We ask for help from professionals, we learn from those who’ve walked this road before us, and we put our tools into action. Then we accept our missteps along with our victories.
After a few weeks, my tears slowed. Like Sarah, my experience of momancholy hasn’t just been about Ellie’s departure, but rather the fact that all three of my children have suddenly become more independent. As soon as I left Ellie at college, I began supporting our son William, a high school senior, with college applications. His life is punctuated by celebratory senior events, reminding all of us that the defining traditions of his high school career are ending. In addition, our younger daughter Leah began high school by joining so many extracurricular activities that we had to hit the brakes. While I’m thrilled that she has found her people and her passions, I’m adjusting to the reality that she’s gone more than her siblings ever were.
Even though I’m tempted to avoid the uncomfortable waves of momancholy through my favorite escape mechanisms (work, scrolling, shopping, baking, etc.), I believe that the way forward is to experience it. Rather than feeling ashamed of my tears, I’m trying to accept them as beautiful. They reveal the significance of my connection with my children, the joy I’ve experienced in motherhood, and my deep investment in nurturing three amazing humans. I’m working on accepting my conflicting emotions around my changing relationship with Ellie. Instead of ignoring my feelings, I’m trying to slow down to appreciate everyday quiet moments. I’m spending more time in our garden, noticing the butterflies and flowers, taking walks with our rambunctious dog, and journaling my feelings. I’m leaning on people who love me, like my husband, my friends, and my family. In moments of loneliness, I'm aware that there is an unimaginable abundance of love in God’s arms, if I just reach out for it.
Seasons of change or loss can be tender for many of us, whether or not we have children with health challenges. It’s hard to know how to handle the complex emotions and new dynamics associated with loss. We all need grace, love, and time to heal.
I’d love to hear your stories. How have you walked through seasons of loss or momancholy with wisdom, love and kindness towards yourself? What have you learned?
Grateful for your companionship on the journey,
P.S. Before you go, please tap the little ♡. It offers “social proof” and lets others know there’s something useful here. Thanks!
Yes to all of the emotions. I’m starting over with one of my kids who has been struggling for many years. He will get there. I know that but i really understand the tears. All the years of uplifting them through the most difficult times every single day. No easy task. Great writing Serena! I really can relate!
I so remember those tear-filled days after my daughter left for college. Then the multiple times she went across the world to study and later work. I feel your pain. We mothers grow so close to our daughters, and the partings are painful!
You captured the experience so well! Wonderful writing!