It’s the middle of summer, and the energy feels busy as it always does this time of year for college counselors. Rising seniors are trying to get their applications as close to 90% done as is humanly possible before their senior years begin.
Parents of rising seniors, I see you. Take a deep breath, hold it in for a second, maybe two, then let it out. You’re going to be okay, I promise. You’re about to enter one of the most emotionally charged years of parenting your teen, but you’ll get through it. We all do.
For the last weeks, months, maybe even for the last year and a half, you’ve been consumed by finalizing your student’s college list, making sure it feels balanced. Your mind is on the essays your child is struggling to write, or avoiding altogether. Then there are the deadlines and the uncertainty around college costs, scholarships and financial aid. You may be feeling worried that this delicate dance of a dozen moving pieces, submitted by so many different people, will actually come together on time. All of that is valid, and trust me, it will all come together. It always does. Underneath all of it, though, there’s an emotional journey happening for us as parents, one none of us ever feel fully prepared for.
Your child’s whole life has been about preparing to one day leave you. As parents we spend our parenting journey preparing them to become confident, competent, capable humans. Over the next year, you’ll celebrate, reflect, feel excitement, relief, and nostalgia. Sometimes, it will feel almost like grief as you celebrate watching your child become the person you’ve spent nearly two decades helping them become. You’ll reflect on the little moments you didn’t realize were “lasts” until they passed: the last coffee run and nature walk of their high school years with you, and the last family vacation where everyone was together. The summer before my daughter left to pursue junior year away at boarding school, I made myself notice everything because I knew I wouldn’t get it back.
You’ll feel excitement watching them imagine a future that’s entirely their own, one that doesn’t include you. You’ll watch their confidence grow and see how much lighter they seem as uncertainty gives way to independence, as they need us to enable and coddle them less, and assert their independence more.
You’ll also feel relief that they’re ready, that the late nights, hard conversations, sacrifices, carpools, practices, homework battles, doctor appointments, and countless moments of showing up are coming to a close, and that all of it has contributed to who your soon-to-be high school graduate has become.
Then, without warning, some ordinary morning after you’ve dropped them at school, the grief will arrive; not because anything is wrong, but because everything’s actually right. You’ll know you’ve done your job, that they’re ready to leave you, and it’s time to trust you prepared them well as you get ready to let them go. The goal was never to keep them little, dependent, or needy, it was always to raise children who felt capable and ready to step into their future.
As senior year unfolds, you’ll start measuring time differently, not in years but in “last first days”: the last crew season, the last art show, the last theater production and concert, the last debate competition, then the last family vacation before college, the last birthday sleepover. Each one will crack your heart open a little, because you’ll be doing two things at once: celebrating what a great job you’ve done, bursting with pride that they’re ready, but also grieving, because launching them into independence is hard even after camps and boarding school and every other practice run. You’ll wonder when they’ll come back, knowing they’ll probably never really live with you again.
This irony, joy and devastation existing in the same breath, exists because there is nothing more powerful than the love we have for our children. You’ve raised a human who is ready to be (mostly) self-sufficient, and you already know how much you’ll miss even the most annoying parts of having a teenager in your house.
I know this firsthand, because I’ve done this twice already, and I’m getting ready to do it again. The first time, my daughter was sixteen when she got into a boarding school in Hudson, Ohio. I’d hoped for something closer, an hour and a half away instead of what turned into an eleven hour drive or a flight. I was thrilled for her and heartbroken for myself, and for weeks after we committed, I let myself grieve so I wouldn’t fall apart the day I actually had to leave her there. That whole summer became an exercise in paying attention, because I knew none of it would come back around. She came home often, and came home happy, so when college arrived a few years later, it didn’t feel like starting over. It felt like she was headed back to boarding school again, with a lot more independence, and one more eye of mine that wouldn’t fully close at night.
Now, as I begin the process with my son, a rising junior, I can already feel that lump in my throat in anticipation of where he’ll (we’ll) be a year from now. So, if you’re already feeling emotional before senior year has even started, you’re not doing it wrong. You’re doing parenthood exactly as it’s meant to be done: with an open heart, pride, anticipation for what’s ahead, and the knowledge that your baby is growing up and growing away. This, I believe, is the greatest paradox of parenthood: wanting so badly to savor this remaining time with them before launching them into the world without you. And if you’re like me, you’ve probably wished, at least once, that you could cryogenically freeze them so they’d stay with you forever.
From one parent to another: soak it all in. Take the extra photo. Indulge the trip to the ice cream store. Take a road trip and let them be the DJ while you listen to them share about their lives. Sit a little longer with them after dinner. Get to every last track meet, soccer game, regatta. Take a breath together. Savor this year, and remind them that as much as it feels like a race, applications completed, essays revised, lists finalized, resumes tweaked, forms filed, financial aid researched, that’s not the true goal. This process is supposed to be about confidence, reflection, and celebrating years of real growth.
The applications will get submitted. The decisions will come. But that’s just one part of the process, not the point of it. Remember, after acceptance and enrollment, life keeps moving forward, they continue to grow and change and earn confidence. They never stop being our kids.
This season only really happens once. A little over a year from now, you’ll be moving them into that dorm room. What you’ll realize after the tears, the grief and the worry as they settle in, is that our job as parents doesn’t end when they leave for college. Our role and relationship with them evolves. We will always be their parents; they will never stop needing us. But parenting young adults transitions into something closer to friendship, even though you’ll still sleep with one eye open and check your phone incessantly to make sure they’re okay when they’re out late, traveling, or doing something new.
You won’t just survive this paradoxical, joyful, devastating milestone, you’ll discover something wonderful on the other side of it. Letting our children go is really about witnessing who they’ve become as they step confidently into the next phase of their lives, planting roots in everything they’ve learned and in every community they join.
That’s what this whole process is about. As it continues to unfold, I promise you will not only survive it, you’ll be grateful and proud as they make their way into the world, carrying the unconditional support, love, and pride you’ve given them.
It’s still the middle of summer. The energy around you is busy and will stay that way for a while yet. So take a deep breath. Hold it, then let it out.
You’re going to be okay. I promise. You’ve got this, and so does your rising senior.
If you’re in the thick of it right now, I’d love to hear where you are in this process. Hit reply.
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About Christine’s book
College Isn’t the Prize comes out August 15, 2026.
It is the whole case behind this essay: what families lose when they treat admission as the finish line, and what our kids gain when they stop running toward it. I wrote it for the parents and students who are still, like me, catching up to what Henry already knows.
Presales are open now here.
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