A New Chapter in Natchitoches

Over the weekend, I drove my youngest to Natchitoches to drop her off for a four-week program at the Louisiana School of Math, Science, and the Arts. She attended summer camp there last year and knew she wanted more. So this summer, she’s back. Only this time, it’s a test run—a glimpse of what life might be like if she finishes high school there.

That means sophomore, junior, and senior year spent three hours from home.

A brave, bold choice for a fifteen-year-old.
But if you knew my girl, you’d understand.
She is as brave as she is beautiful.
The perfect blend of her father and me.

And one that stretched me in all the ways I didn’t see coming.

The Drive That Made Me Feel Everything

We left before sunrise. Her friends rode along, and the car filled up with teenage energy—music, laughter, then quiet. She slept most of the ride, headphones in, while I drove with nothing but my thoughts and a podcast playing in the background. I couldn’t tell you what it said—I wasn’t really listening.

And that’s when it hit me.
How fast this season has come.
How long we were just surviving.
And how—suddenly—we’re here.

Parenting sometimes feels like that. A blur. A storm. A stretch of days and years where the only thing you can do is keep showing up. And while there’s nothing wrong with that, survival doesn’t always leave much room for reflection.

But on that drive, I had no choice but to feel it all.

The Drop-Off

Once we arrived, everything moved fast.
Check-in. Dorm keys. Luggage hauls. ID cards. Laptops.

I stayed behind to make the beds—battling a bunk that nearly broke me (or my damn back to be quite truthful)—and pretended not to notice the lump in my throat.

Because that’s what we do. We push through the ache for our kids.
Being a mother teaches you sacrifice like you’ve never known.

We show up.
We make things comfortable.
We swallow our feelings and keep going.

The Meeting That Changed My Perspective

Later, I sat in a room full of parents, listening to professors and directors speak with clarity, compassion, and conviction. And with every word, my heart settled.

I knew she was in the right place.
I knew this was what she needed.

I even found myself wishing I could stay and learn alongside her—because my love of learning runs deep, and opportunities like this just didn’t exist for me.

But here I was… giving them to her.
Offering what I never had.
Pouring love into the roots of the next generation.

Healing in Real Time

I thought of the expectations placed on me as a kid.
The chaos I grew up in.
The dreams I had that were slowly crushed by dysfunction.

How I would’ve never survived a place like this—
not because I wasn’t smart enough,
but because I couldn’t imagine leaving my friends.
At that age, they were the only family I had.

And I realized—I’ve already broken the cycle.
I’ve already given her such a steady, stable home that this feels easy for her.

I’ve always tried to give my children room to grow—
but now, I’m wiser.
Better.
More grounded.

I’ve created something different.
Not perfect, but healthy.
Safe.
Supportive.
Rooted in love.

These are the moments that prove it.

The Ride Back

The drive home was quiet.
No music. No chatter. No one riding shotgun.
Just me, the road, and the ache.

I missed her.
Still do.

That won’t ever fade when her presence is absent.

But I would never tell her that in a way that made her feel responsible for my sadness.
I would never put that weight on her.
Because I know what that feels like.

Instead, I chose to shift my focus—to see this space not as a loss, but an opening.
A chance to work hard.
Crush my goals.
Plan for future travels with Kevin.
Use this time wisely.

Because every season, every shift, every moment—no matter how hard—is an opportunity to grow.

What I Hope She Knows

I hope she knows how proud I am of her.
How brave she is.
How this leap of faith—this temporary goodbye—is actually her becoming.

I hope she feels how loved she is, even from three hours away.
I hope the thought of us, of her home, feels like the warmest hug.

And I hope she learns what I’ve come to understand:
That it’s okay to leave home.
It’s okay to be scared.
And it’s okay to bet on yourself.
Matter of fact, you shouldn’t bet so big on anything else.

She’s growing. I’m growing. And I wouldn’t trade a single moment of it.