Over the past few months, I have found myself deeply immersed in the process of guiding my seventeen-year-old daughter—now a senior in high school—through the complex, exhilarating, and often overwhelming journey of college applications. As she sits at the kitchen table with her laptop open, thoughtfully typing essays that attempt to define who she is and who she hopes to become, I find it impossible not to be transported back in time. In her concentrated expression, I see a reflection of my younger self, sitting decades ago in the small, worn kitchen of my dilapidated college apartment, when a single moment altered the entire trajectory of my life. I can still recall that space in cinematic detail: the faded brown linoleum peeling at the edges, the relentless buzz of the fluorescent bulbs overhead, and the eerie way that sterile light illuminated every shadow as I sat, trembling and crying, unable to fully comprehend what had just happened. My boyfriend was beside me, his head buried in his hands, surrounded by a fan of positive pregnancy tests laid out on the floor like a curious, accidental display—reminding me, absurdly, of the neatly arrayed color sticks used to choose nail polish at the salon.
Even now, I am astonished by how close in age I was to the young woman currently sitting across from me. How could it be that only a few brief years separated my seventeen-year-old daughter—the girl who still asks me to run into the smoothie shop to pick up her order because she dreads unnecessary small talk—from the version of myself who had to face the enormous, life-altering reality of impending motherhood? My daughter, whose bedroom floor is a shifting landscape of clothes, books, and half-finished art projects, and whose kindergarten portrait still stops me in my tracks with its radiance, is light-years away from being ready to shoulder such a responsibility. The very thought of her standing at the precipice of motherhood in just a few short years fills me with a kind of vertigo, awakening emotions I thought I had long buried.
When I first discovered I was pregnant, I was impossibly young—barely a woman, really. I can still picture my boyfriend’s truck pulling into the parking lot near my dorm on that bright, early-semester morning. The sun shimmered on the windshield, my gold hoop earrings swung as I climbed in, and an intoxicating sense of optimism filled my chest. I believed that life was unfolding just as it should—that the road ahead, though uncertain, was wide open and inviting. Only a few weeks later, when I realized that my period was late and began to understand what that meant, that naive certainty collapsed in on itself like a building losing its structure. Looking at my daughter now, with her wide, unguarded innocence, I can finally grasp just how very, achingly young I was then. That revelation sits heavy in me, equal parts grief and recognition.
The confident, carefree girl I once was—the girl who believed that the future bent easily toward her desires—dissolved in that kitchen the night I held those tests in my shaking hands. I do not think I ever recovered her completely. Becoming a mother, no matter when it happens, reshapes a person from the inside out. It dismantles the architecture of who you were and rebuilds you into someone new, someone softer in certain places and infinitely more vigilant in others. It empties you and refills you with purpose, but always at a cost. For years, I mourned that earlier version of myself—the one who existed unburdened by the gravity of another life depending on her. Yet when I look at my daughter, teetering on the brink of adulthood, I know with certainty that every loss was exchanged for the honor of being her mother, a role that feels both inevitable and sacred.
Now, as I watch her poised between childhood and independence, I sense an echoing grief—not just for the passing of her youth, but for the person I was when I stood where she now stands. She radiates potential, holding the world in her hands, and her presence calls to mind my own brief, blinding moment of possibility before motherhood transformed everything. Back then, I was fearless. I moved through each day with an untested self-assurance that I would never fully reclaim. And yet, woven through that loss is one indelible memory that eclipses every regret: the moment when the nurse placed my daughter—my newborn, impossibly tiny and perfect—onto my chest for the very first time. As she burrowed against my skin, something ancient and profound stirred within me. It felt as though our souls recognized each other instantly, as if she had always been a part of me and we were simply meeting again after a long separation. In that serene moment, all fear quieted, and a single thought crystallized in my mind: Oh. It’s you.
Now, with her nearing adulthood, I am overwhelmed by a mixture of pride, longing, and unspoken sorrow. I have spent nearly eighteen years discovering who I am alongside her—indeed, because of her. Every stage of her growth redefined my own identity, shifting the landscape of who I thought I was meant to become. And now, almost overnight, I must begin the process of learning how to exist without her constant presence—the silence that will linger in the spaces she once filled. My heart quivers at the thought, balancing fear for what lies ahead with an electric excitement that mirrors the sensation I felt when she was first a secret inside me.
There is, undeniably, grief for the younger version of myself—the girl who had to set aside certain dreams to make room for a far greater one. Yet I do not wish my daughter to inherit any of that sadness. I want her to experience the joy, freedom, and infinite promise that I once felt before the weight of responsibility reshaped my world. I want her to build a life that is wholly her own, rich with choices I never had, and to do so without ever feeling guilty for the privilege of that freedom. The things I wish for her—independence, fulfillment, adventure—sometimes feel impossible, perhaps because they are things I quietly wish again for myself. Still, seeing the vast expanse of opportunity stretching before her fills me with a quiet, almost reverent hope.
Ultimately, my greatest prayer is that no matter how far life takes us, we will always find our way back to one another—to that essential connection that began the instant she entered the world. When that reunion comes, whenever and however it happens, I hope it will feel as familiar as that first embrace, when I looked down at her tiny face and thought, with complete certainty and love, Oh, it’s you.
Sourse: https://www.businessinsider.com/became-mom-in-college-daughter-applying-to-college-2025-12
