When the Shift Happens

It started raining as we pulled onto campus.

Not the dramatic kind—just steady, quiet, and enough to make everything feel a little heavier.

It was my son’s first overnight band camp.

He had to audition right away, and I could tell he was nervous—not just in the way he carried his trumpet, but in his energy. 

He was chatty, shifting from one thought to the next, trying to fill the space between comfort and the unknown.

We made it to the warm-up room. Still nervous.
Outside the audition door. Still nervous.
He gave me a quick glance before he walked in—just enough to say, I hope I can do this.

When it was over, we drove to the dorm:

He filled me in on the feedback he was given.
We unloaded the bags, and carried bedding three flights of stairs to his room.
He met his roommate while I climbed up to make the top bunk.

(Does anyone ever want to sleep in a loft bed?)

And then—before I even stepped down—I could feel it.

He was ready for me to go.

He didn’t say it, but it was there. 
Not unkind.
Just a quiet shift.

It didn’t hurt my feelings. (I mean, not really.)
But it did something to me.
Something I still don’t have words for.

Later that night, he texted. He was discouraged and disappointed.

So I reminded him what I’ve always tried to remind him:

You showed up.
You did your best.
That matters.
That counts.
Now learn and be the best you can be tomorrow.
I am proud of you.

And maybe that’s the lesson tucked inside all of this. At some point, 

We move from being the one who walks beside them 

to 

the one who stands back, just far enough to let them grow—

but 

close enough to catch them if they reach back.

If you’re in that space—
if you’ve felt the shift—
you’re not alone.

I don’t have this all figured out.

In fact, I’m sitting in the middle of it, too—learning how to hold space instead of holding on.

Trying to remind myself of these same words…

as the rain fades,
and the letting go begins.