Earlier this month, Adrian graduated from college, and I’ve been sitting with the quiet upheaval it sparked: the awe, the tenderness, the ache, the strange way time collapses and stretches at once.
It was a moment I once feared I wouldn’t live to see, and now it’s one I’ll never let go.
There he was—cap, gown, honor cords. Crossing the stage with quiet confidence, shaking hands with the president and dean.
On his way back to his seat, he passed just beyond where I sat—separated only by an artificial hedge—part formality, part metaphor.
We reached for each other, embracing across the barrier—awkward and immense, boxwood and ceremony falling away.
That hug held so much—twenty-three years of love and letting go.
As our arms fell away, so did time. I wasn’t on a pristine lawn in California anymore.
I was back in Geneva, outside the Clinique des Grangettes, just days after his birth.
The hospital doors sighed shut behind us. The car seat looked absurdly large for the tiny bundle inside.
My heart, swollen with a love I could hardly contain, cracked open into something sharp and primal: What if I can’t protect him?
Under a pale autumn sky, I wanted to turn back and hand him to someone wiser, steadier, more capable of protecting the fragile new life I’d just brought into the world.
In those early years, the fear quieted, but never vanished.
It hovered just beyond view, like a shadow in the corner of the room.
Over time, surrender became my teacher.
I couldn’t protect him, but I could walk beside him as he met the world.
I walked beside him through Burmese temples, both of us barefoot and curious, stepping gently past monks and stray dogs in the golden dust of Mandalay.
I watched him peer into the faces of North Korean children with a gaze unclouded by ideology—offering his baseball, and his smile—on three surreal, improbable trips.
And then, there was the day he boarded his first international flight alone at age eight—small backpack, serious face, his name printed on a laminated tag.
That day, I let go a little more—standing still as he walked away, pride and panic knotted in my chest.
It was another reminder that the ache of letting go is woven into the privilege of watching him become.
And then time folded once more.
Four years ago, I was asked to let go of more than just control. Illness threatened my place in this life.
It was the beginning of living with death—not as a moment, but as a presence.
Not a force that replaced love, but one that walked alongside it.
One of my very first thoughts after the diagnosis wasn’t about pain.
It wasn’t even about dying.
It was this: I’m going to miss Adrian’s graduation.
A strange thing to fixate on, maybe—especially since I’d skipped both of my own graduations while living overseas.
It was never about the pomp or the ceremony.
It was something quieter, more luminous—
a mother’s longing to witness a crossing.
Not just into adulthood,
but into the vast, unmapped country
where my presence shifts from body to blessing.
Graduation was the visible threshold.
But beneath the stage and speeches,
there was something older unfolding—
a quiet handing over,
a final tether loosened in love.
The odds of my being alive for it were five percent.
A number that whispered not how long I had—
but how little.
So I stopped measuring what I might miss.
And started offering what I still carried—
the quiet truths, the love-shaped wisdom,
the gifts I once imagined unfolding over decades.
We folded those decades into four extraordinary years of adventure—
jungles and mountaintops, coral reefs and sacred ceremonies—
each place a love letter,
each journey a transmission.
I named the things I might once have let emerge slowly.
I showed him where to find me when I’m gone—
in the chorus of the jungle, the pull of the ocean,
the wide, unending sky.
And then when I sensed he could hold the loss,
I finally understood:
it was never my job to prepare him for my absence.
Life would see to that.
That knowing loosened my grip.
It was I who had to learn how to let go.
And letting go didn’t come all at once—
it arrived like devotion:
quiet, steady, patient, loving him into his freedom.
Now, he’s heading to Berlin, beginning his dream job—working to prevent conflict in outer space.
It feels like the natural unfolding of what’s always lived within him:
thoughtfulness, idealism, quiet brilliance,
and a gaze that’s always reached just beyond the horizon.
I’ve watched him pack with quiet intention—
choosing what to carry,
what to release,
what no longer fits the life he's stepping into.
Each decision, a small act of becoming.
I couldn’t be more proud.
And still—
there’s an ache beneath the pride.
Not just because he’ll be farther away in miles,
but in rhythm.
A serious relationship.
A full travel schedule.
The gravitational pull of a life expanding—its own constellation now, with orbits I no longer circle.
More than ever, I understand what a privilege it is to share time—
not out of fear or need, but from the simple, sacred joy of presence.
He’s stepping into his future
with clarity and conviction.
And I’ve learned to love him
without holding on.
We don’t surrender all at once.
We surrender in waves.
Illness taught me that.
So did motherhood.
And now, I’m learning again—
to trust that the heartbreaks I can’t prevent will shape him.
That even my absence will be part of what forms him.
There’s tenderness in that trust.
A loosening.
A bowing of the head to the mystery that holds us both.
Time has softened its edges—
not a line, but a tide,
pulling us apart and bringing us close
in ways I never expected.
It teaches me to meet each moment with open hands.
I know I won’t always walk beside him—
not in this life, not in this body.
But I know that love will.
In his breath. In his choices. In the quiet places where memory lives
The story won’t end.
It will simply change shape.
No before. No after.
Only love—quiet, steady, still holding him.
Like the tide.
Like arms reaching across the hedge.
What follows is something I once believed was meant to remain private. But spirit has a way of nudging us toward communion. So I offer it here—softly, reverently—behind a gentle paywall. Not to monetize it, but to protect its sacredness. To share it with those who feel called, without placing it fully in the public square.
My Beloved Son,
Happy college graduation ! I could not be more proud of the person you’ve become. Not only of what you’ve become but how you move through the world. With quiet depth. With a fierce devotion to what matters. With wonder that stretches toward the stars and roots that reach into the mystery.
I’ve watched with awe as you’ve navigated your college years—not just for what you’ve achieved, but for the way you’ve done it: with intention, curiosity, and expansiveness. You let your heart and your intellect wander across continents and ideas. You made your college experience a living, breathing tapestry: music, art, IR club, love, Athenaeum, tennis, pool, travel with Neil, escapades to the desert, mountains, concerts in LA, etc . You have always understood that richness lies not in the narrow, but in the layered—like a quilt stitched from unlikely but beloved pieces. Let your life remain wild in its diversity, textured in its contrasts, sacred in its totality.
One of the things I am most proud of is what a devoted friend you are. You know how to show up—with humor, with honesty, with presence—and you’ve gathered around you a luminous constellation of beings who love you deeply. You understand the importance of community, and you know how to nurture it. Wherever you go, community will continue to surround you in love and belonging.
I am so deeply delighted that you have found love with a woman I cherish. I wish you both the wildest joy, the deepest growth, and the kindest luck as you co-create your future.
Your grandparents are now looking down on you now with deep pride. So are all the ancestors whose lives and prayers live in your blood. You will not be far in Berlin from the lands in Germany and Holland where your family once lived, and just a breath away from Geneva, a city still echoing with the spirit of your early days. You are walking the same grounds as your ancestors. it is full circle. It is in your blood.
As you step into the wild unknown ahead, may you keep returning to your intentions. Let them be your compass. Let them whisper to you when the world gets loud. Begin your days inward. Even just a few minutes. A breath. A pause. A moment before the world rushes in. And as you close each night, I hope you name one thing that you’re grateful for. These small acts have brought you here. They will keep you wise and open as you rise into what’s next.
There will be pain. I wish I could spare you that, but it, too, is part of the spiral. I hope it comes later. I hope it’s gentle. And when it does arrive, I hope you remember: it too will pass. And by its passing it reveals how brightly Joy can burn.
You are the miracle I was chosen to mother. I am awash with gratitude for the soul that you are. With my whole heart, Mom
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