My Daughter Is Going to College and I'm Struggling to Let Go

We're down to days before my daughter leaves for her first year of college. I'm adding and deleting items from our shared Amazon cart and asking mom friends about those big blue IKEA bags that TikTok campus influencers rave about.

"I already bought them," Emily said. "They'll be here tomorrow."

Her bedroom floor is a tangle of Taylor Swift merch, crop tops, platform shoes, snow globes, colored pencils, and framed pictures she's planning to take to school.

"Oh," I said. "I just thought..." And then I stopped myself.

For 18 years, I've been the one making sure Emily has what she needs when it comes to the important things. Yes, she knows her father's credit card number by heart, but I'm the one who commandeered her sleep schedule, playdates, spelling tests, what she wore and ate, summer camp sign-ups, screentime, weekend plans, and college application deadlines.

I've had good reason to be hyper-focused on her well-being. When I put Emily on the bus for kindergarten, she was a week out of treatment for high-risk cancer. We weren't sure she'd make it through the year. She was given a 50/50 chance of survival and told we were out of options if she relapsed.

Since then, I've felt like it's my responsibility to keep her alive, a role that has been a full-time occupation. My husband questioned what more we could do. But leaving her life to chance felt irresponsible to me. I clenched the reins and headed toward an unpromised destination with unwavering conviction.

This summer, I'm doing it again. In addition to making sure Emily has the typical college-kid essentials like fairy lights, a sound machine and an extra-thick mattress pad, I'm tending to more unique essentials.

Years of cancer treatment left Emily with certain physical challenges, so I'm double-checking she has a stool to reach the shelves in her closet, a three-month supply of her estrogen prescription, and special castor oil for hair growth.

For over a decade, I was convinced I could hack Emily's health and keep cancer away. I spent thousands of dollars on off-the-grid doctors our insurance didn't cover and cut gluten and dairy from her diet. I limited her time in chlorine pools and restricted the amount of red frosting she ate, nervous about possible carcinogens.

These past few months are requiring every bit of my strength to let go, yet in a different way than I've known before. I wish I could say it's been voluntary, but it hasn't.

Emily's made it clear I'm no longer in charge of her. A decision to sleep at her friend's house or to switch a work shift so she can go to the beach is now her call. When I offer unsolicited input she stops me a few words in and says, "Please, mom, I'm good," often holding up a hand for emphasis.

At first, I was hurt by her reaction, but I admit the emotion was misplaced. For 14 years, thinking about saying goodbye to Emily meant something finite. Now it carries a whole other set of outcomes. The reality makes my head spin.

Emily wasn't supposed to make it. Yet here we are. What am I supposed to do exactly?

A hands-off approach takes practice. I give myself pep talks throughout the day that letting her go will be good, even when that feels like a lie.

My transition is slow but marked with progress. I resist the temptation to check Emily's location on my app before I go to bed. When she tells me she's going out with friends instead of watching The Bear with me, I don't pout.

Instead, I smile and say in my cheeriest tone: "Have fun!" I've even reached out to some people I've neglected for years to go for a walk or a trip to T.J. Maxx. It turns out, there's a whole world outside of my head.

As hard as Emily's life has been, she's proven her resiliency. She filled out her college roommate preferences and decided how many meals she'd eat in a semester without asking for my help.

Last week, she shared a spreadsheet listing the items she needs by drop-off day and told me which parent orientation videos to watch. I've found myself taking her lead. I have no other choice.

A few weeks ago, Boston Children's Hospital notified me that Emily is now an adult and solely responsible for her online portal, appointments, medications, scans, and test results.

By the mailbox, part of me wanted to keel over and sob in joy and gratitude. We've arrived at the place I didn't know existed for us. Yet, the other part of me is filled with parental fear of what's ahead.

Will she make smart choices about relationships and not be distracted by her phone when she's walking around the city? Will people be kind to her? What if she leaves and doesn't come back? What if I don't fit into her new life?

This moment is painful and gut-wrenching and awful. And yet, it's also the moment I prayed for from the pediatric oncology floor. It feels impossible at times, but this is what's supposed to happen. I have to trust that she knows what she's doing. She's showing me.

When you have a kid with cancer, the future is always unknowable. I'll always worry about her. All parents do. Keeping kids safe and close is part of our DNA.

A few nights ago, Emily crept into my room holding her laptop. In a rare wonderful moment, she asked for my help. "Can you check this to see if it's right?"

It was her medical records. Rows and columns of checked boxes on a medical form, interspersed with demands of "If yes, explain more." All these years later, the box checked for cancer still felt surreal.

"Weird, right?" I asked her, pointing to it.

"Totally," she said.

The complicated form was filled out perfectly.

I wanted to tell her how impressed I was with her fortitude, every intubation and setback she endured. I wanted words to honor the mere fact that she was here and hurtling toward her future. Is there a prayer for parents who don't have words to express their love? I could've said a lot of things. Instead, I just smiled.

"You nailed it," I said.

Amy McHugh is a writer. As well as writing her memoir, she has previously written for Oprah Daily, The Washington Post, and The Huffington Post.

All views expressed in this article are the author's own.

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