The Truth About Transitions…
Maybe you feel it too—that quiet shift in the air. The calendar isn’t jammed with sports schedules. The laundry baskets aren’t overflowing. And more often than not, there’s no one asking what’s for supper. The house is quieter, the pace slower, and for the first time in a long time, you have space to think—and feel. You’ve spent years showing up for your people—pouring out your energy. But now? They’re growing up. Moving on. And without realizing it, you’re in transition too.
It’s a tender place to be. There’s maternal pride, yes—but also the deep ache of letting go. The wondering: Who am I now? What’s next for me?
That question—what’s next?—has been echoing quietly in my own heart, too. It’s led me to sit with the word transition, turning it like a prism in my hands. And as I turn it, the light shifts—revealing angles I hadn’t noticed before.
In several weeks, I’ll be leaving education—a place I’ve poured my heart into for the past three years—and stepping into health and wellness coaching, a calling that’s been quietly growing in me for some time. And as I shift, I’m watching my four youngest children shift too—each of them catching the light in different ways, showing new sides of themselves I hadn’t seen before. Just like that prism, transition keeps revealing more the longer I hold it.
Malaysia, 22, is in the in-between space—capable, searching, preparing to stand on her own two feet. She has an esthetician degree and is working at the front desk of a wax center, which works for now. And she is just getting started, to be honest. Growth takes time. For me, it’s about giving her that time without pressure or trying to control.
Bridget, also 22, will be walking across the stage at Fort Hays next weekend, elementary education degree in hand, ready to step into classrooms of her own. (She loves the little kids, which I find crazy.)
Thomas, my 20-year-old, graduated last May as a power lineman. He’s doing difficult, dangerous work. Each weekend he comes home and tells us stories. Sometimes during the telling, as I feel ready to suffocate from the magnitude of it all, his dad gives him a look, which means, “Stop talking, son. Read the room.” Letting go is not easy for this mama, but it’s his path, and he is doing brave things.
David, my youngest, just shot up seven inches in two years and is getting ready to launch a car detailing business. He did the research, bought the supplies, and made my car carpets look brand new. (I had no idea carpets could get that dirty…or that clean.) He’s growing in ways I can hardly keep up with.
Everywhere I turn, change is happening. The house feels quieter. My role as a mother is shifting—less hands-on, more heart-on. And that push-pull on my soul? It’s real. The push to release. The pull to hold close.
Transition isn’t just something we experience personally—it’s something we live alongside those we love. For instance, as I watch Bridget prepare for graduation, I’m struck by the quiet ache and quiet hope that live side by side. She’s reaching out, sending resumes, interviewing—and waiting. That prayerful, stretching kind of waiting. The space between what is and what will be. Between who she’s been and who she’s becoming. And I feel it just as deeply from where I stand.
She has her eye on specific schools and one grade level in particular. So I did what mothers do; I took it to prayer. I grabbed my beads and went to my spot—my porch swing on my deck, and as I fell into the familiar cadence, my heart was sending out S.O.S. signals like a flare, asking for special, loving attention for Bridget.
During that prayer session I felt the Holy Spirit pause me, so I stopped praying. In that space, I saw all the ways that He has guided me in my life and in my own teaching career. I recalled my beautiful teaching experience at Sacred Heart Catholic School in Old Town Florissant, a glorious place, rich with close-knit families. I thought of the amazing students. The supportive staff. The fantastic principal. I thought of my “second” career with education, as I went back into the classroom after raising children for three decades. I smiled as I thought of all of the joy I’ve experienced over the last three years. Then I heard without hearing, “Lori, I was there for you…and I’ve got Bridget, too.”
I share that with you, knowing that you are most likely in a similar place, wanting to be connected to your children without controlling, walking beside them without leading. It’s about surrendering to something bigger than ourselves; many call it Trustful Surrender to Divine Providence. It’s a new way of living, a new way of loving, and it is deeply sacred, if we take the time to allow it entrance.
Sometimes it is easier to just stay busy, to NOT let the emotions in because inevitably, with the tender emotions, in the quiet of that space, the old familiar questions creep in: Did I do enough? Did I love well? Did I screw them up? Will they need therapy for decades? Should I have made them stick with piano? Soccer? Babysitting? Was I too soft? Too hard? Too distracted? Too much?
It’s the kind of doubt that only comes from deep mama love. We wonder if all the moments added up to enough. If we were enough.
But here’s the truth: there’s no such thing as a perfect mother—only a present one. If you stayed, if you showed up, if you prayed and tried and woke up in the middle of the night filled with all of the questions and trauma and doubt filling you, only to wake up to a fresh new day, with you hugging, loving and supporting—you loved well. You did your job. And now, as you step back, giving them room to leave you, to fly, your presence still matters more than you can imagine. They will still need you. They will keep coming back. And in case you forget, they will bring people with them.
So even though the current change seems gigantic, this is not actually an ENDING. It’s simply a transition.
Transitions are holy ground. They stretch us. They grow us. They call us to trust—in God, in our children, in ourselves.
Here’s what I’m learning:
I can grieve and celebrate at the same time.
I can feel off balance and still move forward.
I can love fiercely and still let go.
If you’re in the middle of a transitional phrase, know this: there’s not a “right way” to navigate it. Just keep showing up with your whole heart. Keep loving. Keep smiling. Keep being there.
And go to Him who made you, who sees your heart. Let Him fill you so you can keep doing the brave work of letting go. It’s rather cool if you think about it. You’ve gotten your child to where you always wanted them to be. It’s time to celebrate!
I’d love to hear where you are in your own transition.
What are you learning? What are you letting go of? What’s being born in you? We’re in this together, friend. I’d love to hear your thoughts.
P.S. As mothers, we often lose bits of ourselves over the years—especially when it comes to self-care. And honestly? That’s not always a bad thing. Living for others is where the gold is found. It reminds me of something Anne Lamott wrote in Bird by Bird—how both writing and parenting can suck you dry, ruin your sleep, mess with your head... and then hand you the gold nugget you didn’t even know you were searching for.
But after years of giving, you may feel the quiet nudge to return to yourself—to rediscover your strength, your energy, your wholeness. If your soul is craving something that’s yours again, something that brings your body back to life and reminds you who you are, I’d love to walk with you.
My next coaching round begins May 19—a date I chose knowing many mothers will be standing at the edge of change, looking for something steady. If that’s you join me at this link.
You don’t have to do this alone.