He's Off to College

I’ve been going over this day in my mind for months. College drop-off—the milestone you know is coming but can’t fully prepare for until you’re standing in it. For us, it all came down to one single day. Just one.

It also happened to fall during my busiest week of the year for work—Meredith’s Orientation. In fact, Meredith’s own move-in day was the very next day. That meant our trip to Christopher Newport had to be a quick down-and-back. No lingering, no extra days to get him settled, no slow soaking in of the campus. Just one day to move him in, hug him goodbye, and turn back home.

The three-and-a-half-hour drive was sprinkled with meaningful conversations—all the things left to cover. Can I still track you on Life360? How will we communicate? What’s my expectation for how often we’ll talk? How will we handle money and covering costs of incidentals? The kind of last-minute “rules of engagement” every mom wants in place before her kid flies.

Of course, it wasn’t all conversation. TJ was tired—he’d stayed up late the night before saying goodbye to Allyssa—so he slept through a good portion of the ride. When I wasnt talking with Rich, I was alone with my thoughts, turning over the weight of the day. The tension sat with me. I wanted to leave him fully settled, but I knew there would be things left undone. Still to buy. Still to organize. And I had to remind myself—it’s not my job. It’s not my space. It’s his. To truly feel at home, you have to live into it. And that takes time.

Still, that truth didn’t stop me from wishing for just a little more time to help him with all of this. 

Finally, we made it to campus and pulled right up to his hall. The very first person we ran into? The college president himself. He and his wife were making the rounds, and before we’d even carried in a box, he stopped to greet us, shook TJ’s hand, and remarked on how well I was holding it together (guess I fooled him). If you need reassurance that your kid is in good hands, that moment was it.

The actual move-in was surprisingly smooth. Task-focused. No drama. No “too many cooks in the kitchen,” since TJ’s roommate wasn’t arriving until the next day. Part of me wished they could’ve set up the room together, but I know they’ll rearrange things soon enough. For now, we got everything in place—and in one trip, no less. Everything from the car to the residence hall in a single go. Unheard of! It helped that TJ lives on the first floor, that the weather wasn’t brutal, and that Dad was there for all of the logistics.

While TJ and I unpacked, Dad and Grant wandered campus and met up with an ROTC friend. I kept my head down, organizing and folding, maybe because it was easier to focus on the tasks than the emotions.

By the time we wrapped up, the question was—what next? I assumed the plan was lunch together, but TJ casually mentioned he was meeting the cross-country team for a run at 3:00, with a meeting at 5:00. Cue the mama heartache. Lunch suddenly seemed in jeopardy. But here’s where TJ stepped up—he read the disappointment on my face and said, “Let’s do lunch. I don’t need to run.” Thank you, TJ. You’ll never know how much that small choice meant.

We ended up at a family favorite, Chick-fil-A, which was also right next to Target. Shopping came next, though it was over far too quickly. TJ was laser-focused—straight to the items on his list, no wandering the aisles. Probably for the best, since in my “mama-is-gonna-miss-you” state, I would have said yes to anything he wanted.

And then came the hardest part of the day: goodbye.

It wasn’t even my hug with TJ that broke me—it was watching him say goodbye to Grant. Those two have been each other’s “go-to” for so long. Over dinner. Over video games. Over TikTok laughs. Their bond is woven into the daily rhythm of our home, and suddenly that rhythm has changed. It will take time for both of them to adjust to their new normal. For all of us to adjust.

When the car pulled away, I felt the weight of both pride and loss. I left part of my heart at Christopher Newport today. We raise them to let them go—but that doesn’t make it any easier.

I knew this day was coming, and now it’s here. I am so proud of him, but I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a quiet ache, too. Because an era has ended. The everyday laughter, the inside jokes, the late-night brother banter—that rhythm won’t be the same.

On the way home, I finally let myself cry. Ten minutes, maybe. My tears didn’t mean I wanted to turn back—they were a quiet acknowledgment of all the years that brought us here, and all the changes ahead. This is what learning to let go feels like: trusting that he’s ready, even when my heart wants to hold on.

TJ is starting a new chapter, one where he’ll make his own decisions, face challenges on his own, and build the life he’s meant to live. And as he learns to fly, I’m learning that letting go doesn’t mean stepping away—it means giving him space to grow while still being here to cheer, to guide, and to celebrate each milestone from the sidelines.

It’s not easy. It’s not supposed to be. But it is beautiful. And though a part of my heart will always be on that campus with him, I know that letting him go is the greatest gift I can give him—and it's the next lesson I get to learn as his mom.