The Long Drive Home

The drive up was full of excitement. Nine hours never felt so easy, music on, heart full. We were going to celebrate something big. My son, Alex, was graduating from college. I was giddy in a way only a mother can be.

Commencement was beautiful. The kind of cool June day Oregon seems to specialize in, sun peeking out just enough. As his name was called and he walked across that stage, something in me held my breath. There he was, my baby boy, all grown up in a cap and gown, smiling with the kind of pride that only comes from real work, hard work. And he has worked so hard.

After the ceremony came the family hugs, the celebration barbecue, and a little bit of nesting. We helped him move into his next phase of young adult life, setting up the retro stereo system with the turntable and vintage vinyl we’d hunted down for him. Credence Clearwater Revival, The Beatles, and Willie Nelson all lined up beside that record player like old friends waiting to welcome him home. He even got the Weber grill he asked for, a little sign that he’s ready to host, to build his own kind of comfort, his own kind of life.

He’s all set up now. For now.

He’s working at the local hospital, gaining experience and grounding himself in the world he’s preparing to fully step into. In six months, he’ll take the MCAT, his next big mountain. It’s a hard path, but it’s the one he chose. The one that calls to his heart. And I know he’s going to make it.

But today… today, I’m on the road home. And it feels like a very different drive.

The celebration is over. The car is full but feels strangely quiet. We left behind a tidy apartment, a stocked kitchen, a new grill on the patio, and my son. My sweet, driven, fiercely independent son. The silence is loud with the ache of leaving.

It’s a strange thing, this letting go. I know it’s what we raise them for. I know he’s where he should be, on his path, in his purpose, rooted in a place he chose. But that doesn’t make the leaving any easier. I held it together through the goodbyes, through the hugs and the “I’m so proud of you’s.” But halfway through Oregon, it hits me: I just left my baby boy.

Still, home is a wonderful place. And in a way, so is this.

He’s not a little boy anymore, and I’m not just his caretaker. I’m his mom, his witness, his cheerleader, his safe place no matter how far apart we are. And while this drive may be long and a little heavier than the one up, it’s also full of something else: pride, hope, and the quiet knowledge that he’s not just growing up, he’s rising.

And that’s something worth celebrating every mile of the way home.