Letting Go of the Image

I had carefully decided exactly what the goodbye would look like.

Mark and I bringing our daughter to the airport together. Making sure she was safely checked in. A long hug. Holding back the tears until she walked away. Watching her disappear through security. Waving until she could no longer see us.

That was the image I created. The one I wanted. The one that guided me through the last-minute preparations.

Even when I wrote my blog the week before, that was the picture I chose. Not because it was dramatic. Because it felt steady. Contained. Like something I could hold onto.

But reality had other plans.

We left New York a few days earlier so we could spend time together away from the chaos of getting ready. Just time to be together.

Everything was organized. The backpack was packed carefully, with packing cubes labeled for daytime clothes, nighttime clothes, socks, and underwear. Medications were placed together in one bag. Everything had a place. Everything was labeled.

If you know me, this will not surprise you. It may even bring a smile.

Then we got to California.

The backpack was too heavy. I had been saying that all along. Things needed to come out. We would repack it later. More carefully.

But later came too quickly.

The day she was supposed to leave, she was not feeling well. We had already been to urgent care the day before. A stomach bug combined with nerves that were getting the best of her.

Instead of spending our last day together enjoying California, we were in the Airbnb. Mark isolated with the flu. Her trying to decide if she felt well enough to go.

At the end of the day, we had to decide.

She was still struggling. Anxiety turned into tears. And we encouraged her to go.

That part matters.

Not because it was dramatic. But because it was real. We encouraged her to move forward even when things did not feel settled. Even when it did not look the way we had imagined.

It was getting late and we repacked the backpack. Not as perfectly this time. There was an extra bag now. One that did not quite make sense. Snacks. Plane items. Things she did not want in her checked luggage.

I was careful to protect her from Mark's flu. They said goodbye outside, keeping distance between them. It brought back memories of the early days of COVID, when we sat outside to talk, watching each other carefully, protecting one another the only way we could.

Mark stayed behind at the Airbnb. He could not even hug her goodbye.

We got in the car. And of course, this was Los Angeles. The traffic hit hard.

By the time we reached the terminal, there was no time to park.

I pulled up at the curb. The hug was long and yet too short. Too rushed. And then she was hurrying inside to check in.

By some chance, I was allowed to stay just outside the terminal. I stood near my car with my phone pressed to my ear, watching her slowly move through the security line.

We talked the way we would have if we had been standing together. Both of us anxious. Both of us worried she might not make the flight.

Then security made me move.

I drove to the airport exit and waited in a gas station parking lot.

She texted. Visa issue.

My instinct was immediate. I started typing instructions. Steps. Solutions.

Then I stopped.

She needed to do this herself.

And she did.

She figured it out. She got through. She called.

For a moment, there was relief. And then the quiet realization that the distance and time we had been dreading was still ahead of us.

We stayed on the phone while she waited to board. Then she texted from the plane and we finally said good night.

Only then did the tears come. For both of us.

A few weeks earlier, we had driven to Pennsylvania for a weekend visit. That is when my two kids said their goodbye.

They have not lived together in years. They want to be closer. Distance keeps them apart. Physical distance. Emotional distance. The kind that is harder to name.

It was a difficult goodbye. They both knew it would be a long time before they saw each other again.

I had imagined my kids would be close. That goodbyes would happen together. All of us in one place. At one time.

That is not what happened.

I have been creating images for years.

I wanted my kids to graduate side by side. Matching caps and gowns. What I got was two graduations. Both meaningful. Both beautiful. But not together.

I wanted moments to line up cleanly. To look the way they were supposed to look.

Life had other ideas.

I do not think I missed the moments.

I was there. I gave the rushed hug at the curb. I talked to her on the phone while she moved through security. I stopped typing and let her figure it out.

But I still wanted the image I had created.

I wanted the four of us together. I wanted the long hug. I wanted to watch her disappear through the gate.

Recovery has taught me something about this.

About holding what you have while grieving what you do not.

For parents supporting teens in recovery, this kind of grief often comes later. When things are going well. When the fear has softened. And the images are still hard to release.

The next few days, she was in tears. Still unsure about her decision to go. Not because something went wrong. Because it was hard. Because she was far away and would be for a long time.

The image I created is still there. The one where we walked her to security together. Where the hug was long enough. Where we waved until she could no longer see us.

I do not know if that image will ever go away.

But next to it now is another image. The real one.

The rushed hug at the curb. The phone pressed to my ear. The gas station parking lot. The moment I stopped typing and let her figure it out.

Mark waving goodbye instead of hugging her. The sibling goodbye in Pennsylvania, carrying its own weight. The backpack repacked at the last minute. The tears that came after. The love threaded through all of it.

It was not the goodbye I imagined.

But it was ours.

And I am learning that sometimes that has to be enough.

Even when it is not.