Cold January rain pelted the windshield of my red Ford Expedition as I drove toward Barnes and Noble. I parked and swiftly exited the car, retrieving the stroller. I deftly popped it open with one hand, a finely honed skill. Unfastening Elly from her seat behind me, I securely strapped her into the stroller, tucking her favorite stuffed animal, Sheepy, next to her and making sure her pacifier was clipped to her coat. I rushed quickly into the store, shielding us both from the increasing droplets of rain.
Several days earlier a long cream envelope had arrived in our mailbox, bearing within it the long-awaited acceptance letter from Rhodes College. Katy beamed as she read the contents, her dreams were beginning to feel like a tangible reality. Realizing the significance of what was unfolding, I needed a way to mark what was happening. I decided that I would write to her as we walked toward her high school graduation. So, I was in search of the perfect journal.
In the days that followed, I established a cherished ritual of writing to Katy in the evenings after giving Elly her 11 p.m. bottle. Nestled in my favorite blue chair, I would retrieve the journal from its hiding place, allowing myself to be wholly present with Katy and the emotions swirling within me. One by one, I captured the moments that unfolded through the spring of her senior year: from the haunting melodies from her final choir concert to the adrenaline-fueled excitement of her last volleyball game; from the joy of selecting her prom dress to the meticulous search for the perfect pair of shoes; from reading her last English papers to the profound words penned in her valedictorian address.
The writing journey was for her, and for me.
Amidst the whirlwind of mothering five kids stretching across 17 years, it was all too easy to feel swallowed by the chaos. Remaining attuned to the transition happening demanded intentionality.
Every minute of Katy’s final year of high school ran right alongside all of the firsts for Elly. As Katy moved steadily toward graduation day, I found myself imagining who Elly would be when it was her senior year and who I would be as the last of my five children finally “departed the nest.”
On August 16th I wrote for Elly’s first day of school, “It’s here, the first day of school for your senior year. Perhaps because you are my last baby I’ve wondered about this day the longest. You were just two weeks old when my first baby started her senior year. I remember holding you as Katy pulled out of the driveway that morning. You were tiny, the smallest of all five of you. 17 years felt like such a long time away. I already know this year will fly by. Each day walking toward independence, taking you to the threshold of your dreams and plans for the beautiful life you want. I am with you, here for all of it. I will still be holding you close as you drive away this morning—just like I did that day 17 years ago.”
Much has changed as we are finishing this season of parenting. The trusted Ford Expedition, once a necessity with five lively children under our roof, has long since departed, emblematic of the shifts that have transformed our lives.
Elly’s long cream envelope arrived via email and came with an invitation to visit the campus for a special event for the business school. We put her on a plane to her oldest sister, who escorted her around that weekend. There was something sweet and full circle about Elly and Katy doing it together. The shared experience marked the beginning of a new chapter for Elly, the culmination of a transition years in the making.
Recently, I framed Elly’s senior picture and tenderly hung it in the spot that has patiently awaited her presence on the wall. From the time she could walk, she passed by that space, each glance a reminder of the day she would claim her rightful spot among her siblings, commemorating her senior year. As I stood back and admired the completed display, I couldn’t help but reflect on the profound significance of the moment. It begged the question of who I have become as I’ve mothered the five faces adorning the wall.
At 59, I am more at home in myself. The years of mothering have invited me to continue to notice my own younger parts and the stories that shaped me. Weathering the pain of feeling exiled from a community that had once felt like the deepest belonging I had known left me face to face with the choice to finally belong more fully to myself. I know my own face, I have come to look her deeply in the eye, and internally, there is a warm welcome for her graying hair, her age spots, and the lines that speak to the wisdom she holds. And I am aware of the ending chapter that is yet again giving way to the start of something new. I am older, but not too old to birth again in new ways.
Madeline L’Engle once said, “A self is always becoming.” So, here’s to welcoming the next chapter and how I will continue to become as the pages unfold.
Tracy Johnson is a lover of stories, a reluctant dreamer, and the co-founder of Red Tent Living. Married for over 36 years, she is mother to five kids, two sons-in-law, and is a pastor’s wife. She loves quiet mornings with hot coffee, rich conversations, and slowly savored meals at her favorite restaurants. She is awed that God chose her to mother four girls, having grown up with no sisters.
So beautifully filled with gratitude and hope. I love you, friend.