I Can Take It

There we stood. Long after the train had already disappeared. Both of us sobbing, unsure what we were supposed to do now. Our eldest had left for a month in Europe. Alone.

We went for coffee. I think we talked about ordinary things, both of us trying to rearrange our minds around this new reality.

It’s a strange mixture of pride and terror. And a fear that never quite leaves. There are moments when you’re endlessly fascinated by everything the traveller gets to see and experience. And then there are moments when you just sit and wait for a message or a call, because there is nothing else you can do.

And then the call comes late at night, from an energetic young person telling you she’s still going out to a bar with some people.

With some people. To a bar. Somewhere in Europe. At night. Which is, of course, exactly what every mother wants to hear.

——

When you have to go, you have to go. I know that.

Think of everything there is to see and experience. Everything there is to learn about the world, and about yourself. All the things you discover you’re capable of.

That fearlessness. That belief in yourself that makes a young person set off into the world. It’s enviable.

At this age, you’re painfully aware of everything that could happen. And that’s the impossible contradiction.

You want to hold on. And at the same time, you want to let your child experience the world. See everything they want to see. Go wherever they want to go.

There is no way to have both. At some point, you have to let go of one thing. Even if fear keeps you awake at night. Even if terror colours your imagination.

I can take it. I must.

Go, my love. Boldly, into the world.

I will carry the fear for you.