HOOK

sist the feelings; she let them move through her like waves. Watching her was like witness- ing a living work of art, the beauty of someone surrendering to what is real, allowing both love and loss to coexist. That experience re- minded me that grief is not something to fix or rush through. It's a companion on the path of love, proof of our connec/on. When we allow ourselves to feel it fully, we clear space for something new, a deeper trust, a wider heart, and quieter faith. That's where intui/on finds us again, not in the noise of managing or control- ling, but in the s/llness that follows surrender. For me, tuning into intui/on is like tuning an instru- ment. The more care and a0en/on I give to it, the clearer the sound. I've created small rituals that help breathtaking. They are becoming who they are meant to be, and I am learning who I am now as a mom and beyond. Paren/ng, I'm realizing, is not a straight path but a series of thresholds we cross together, first steps, first heartbreaks, or first moves away from home. With each one, we are both changed. They step into new independence, and we step into a new kind of love, one that trusts instead of controls, witnesses instead of directs. I don't prac/ce this perfectly. I make mistakes, I grieve, and I celebrate. And I try again every day. With each threshold comes a so sorrow, the kind that sneaks up when you walk past an old photo, or find a forgo0en toy in a drawer, or hear a familiar song from their childhood. It's the ache of /me mov- ing, and the quiet recogni/on that love keeps evolving even when its form changes. I think of a dear friend whose daughter went off to college last year. I watched her move through every stage of that pas- sage, the joy and pride, the ache of absence, the an/cipa/on, the fear, and finally, the so relief that followed. She didn't re- 30 HOOK Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in menory, and love entwined grief that doesn't demand fixing, only to feel. When they were li0le, le1ng go meant handing them to another pair of arms, a teacher, a babysi0er, or a new friend. Later, it was watching them cross a street alone or close their bedroom door to claim a bit of space. And now, as my older children move into young adulthood, the le1ng go has changed shape again. It's quieter but deeper, a loosening of the daily threads that once /ed our worlds to- gether. There is a bi0ersweet beauty to this stage. I watch them navigate life with their own wisdom and rhythm. They make choices, stumble, and rise again o en without me knowing the full story. It's both humbling and Willam Wordsworth

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