Dear Nora,

One of the (many) things that has surprised me about this life is that it is so easy for me to name my favorite days, moments, stretches within it. They volunteer themselves without a hint of indecision. The day I ran the New York City marathon. Taking you and your sister to the Taylor Swift concert. Riding bicycles on Inis Oirr, the smallest of Ireland’s Aran Islands.

Among these highlights for me are the evenings this past fall that you and I sat on our couch in the living room working through your college applications and most notably, your essay. Or essays, as it were. As you picked what to write, changed your mind, tried something else, and finally arrived at the answer. This is how the best writing happens, I think.

It’s funny, because popular opinion dictates that the college application process with your teenager is not going to be a highlight of the parenting experience. And sure, there were moments. Like when you’d pass the computer to me in the middle of drafting one of the shorter supplemental essays required by certain schools, barely a few sentences on the page, and declare you were “done,” flopping your body to the side like your bones had gone missing. This happened more than once.

But - and I told people this, delighted by the discovery - it was, overall, one of my favorite seasons of parenting. The exploring (Boston, Virginia, Ohio, the tour guides and their precarious backwards-walks) and preparations required as you approached this next step. It felt emotional, of course, but it felt right. And while it was a family affair, with your dad’s expert spreadsheet skills (bless him) and your brother’s sometimes unwelcome commentary on where he would go to school if it were up to him (your turn soon, buddy!), this experience fell largely to me and you.

Me and you. A concept I’m well-versed in, having spent so many devoted hours in your company, and quite memorably during your earliest years. Our first kid! Born observant, so curious, chipmunk cheeks. As a toddler, asking us to sing the ABC’s while you sang “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” at the same time, meshing the words to those identical melodies. All annoyed, eyebrows knit, when we wouldn’t comply or didn’t do it quite right, the young composer at work. You were the first grandchild and I was one of the first of my friends to have a baby. You received no shortage of attention from the many family members, and friends-like-family, who made up our social circle.

But for many of those early days, both of us on a steep learning curve (how to walk, talk, nap on the cot at daycare; how to be a mother) it was me and you. And when we sat on the couch this fall - you needing only the gentlest guidance; both of us in hysterics when you’d get loopy and tired, typing nonsensical phrases into the text box (can you imagine if you’d accidentally pressed send?!) - it felt full circle. Locked in, learning how.

So wrapped up in our united focus that, one time, your younger sister approached, opened her clarinet case and, without a word of explanation, played the song she was practicing for band at full volume, directly into my face. Like: “Hello, please be on alert that you still have other children!”

You had been so self-sufficient for so long, never requiring help with schoolwork; calm and easily-occupied; drama-free. So, when you needed us - first to help dissect the overwhelm of endless higher education options; then during what we’ll refer to as the “mini-existential crisis” you experienced following your college acceptance this winter, when, suddenly, having gotten exactly what you’d worked so hard for, you did not, exactly, know what to work on next; and, just recently, in getting ready to actually depart - it felt, I don’t know, like such an honor.

And that arc - from ready to determined to exhausted to confused to carefree to ready once again - it helped mark the occasion. Because that’s what this is, an occasion, as noteworthy, and worthy of those wide-ranging emotions, as they come.

I decided, around the time that you were getting your senior photos taken, the first of many milestones this significant academic year, that I wouldn’t try to play it nonchalant or take it easy. I’d head straight into the parental whirlwind, teary-eyed emojis and all (although ironically not purchasing the overpriced senior photos, at least not yet; the Legacy Studios emails won’t stop coming).

I think I’ve been writing this message since then, in my head anyway. Compiling the ideas and advice I wanted to share before you headed out, deadline coming quick.

And as though I hadn’t already been doing this since you were a young child (you and your siblings wish!) Prompted by the day’s news, a complicated social situation, your mood or mine, or sometimes out of absolutely nowhere, to deliver my attempt at life lessons. I always tell people my favorite tool as a parent is talking. Your brother complains, and this is a fair criticism, that what I do is talk enough…then keep going.

Furthermore, as I’ve been reminded by veteran parents, as well as in my own moments of surprised recognition (because I think this transition does something to a parent’s mind, Nora, clouds it with a constant photographic loop of their child growing up on repeat, then finds them crying on the way to the grocery store out of nowhere, but not really nowhere): there’s no deadline. That, in many ways - different ways, but still - life will simply go on in this new capacity.

Reminded, happily, because who am I going to give the side-eye to - my constant companion in observing life’s most ridiculous, hilarious, endearing situations now residing in a dorm room several states away - when your father, whom I adore, does something weird? He recently got one of those health trackers and every morning he gives me a long rundown on his sleep cycle; how it may have been affected by herbal tea, for instance. Reminded, when I am going about my day and want to tell you something remarkable, funny or helpful that, phone in the back pocket of my jeans, we live in this world where connecting is easy, and there will be visits, and I sigh my relief out loud.

That being said, I won’t reach out every time. I swear on my heart I’ll do my best not to be a bother, to be a recipient of communications more than their provider, because you are owed this freedom from our constant presence, that freedom is so much of what this next step is all about.

Yet, and I suppose this is somewhat for me, because parenting is often convincing ourselves that we are doing it right (which I think is ok! because if we keep that impulse at least somewhat under control, there is so much valuable guidance in that intent!) I still can’t resist this opportunity. This timely task, like buying you a laundry basket and extra-long twin sheets. To provide, as best as this imperfect, never-has-been-an-expert, parent is able, just some of my tried-and-true advice, compiled with all my love as I contemplate saying this for-now goodbye.

*****

As I laid out back in Maine a few weeks ago, the sky an infinity of stars, I remembered that we are small in this vast universe, and how that has always comforted me.

Not that what we do doesn’t matter. But that we are part of something so much bigger than ourselves.

The reason getting “out of your head” works so well when you are wrapped tight in your own problems, your own seemingly unanswerable questions, is that you realize you are not the first to feel them, that you are never alone in carrying their weight.

Recall one of my favorite questions: “will this enlarge or diminish me?” Call it “growth mindset',” call it curiosity. Take the road that will expand your horizons.

People say it’s a small world and, at times, it is (while I’m on this note, never forget that you can get in a car or on a plane and see it and the people you love; this world is traversable, take the trip!) But it’s big, too, and I have found that there’s no greater cure for a stubborn day than observing the bustling streets of a big city or the intimate conversations at the local coffee shop. Than reaching outside the confines of my own mental checklist and giving someone a complement. We are minor players in an ensemble.

Which is why you should volunteer, and there are many ways to do so, from organizing pantries of donated food to lending your time and mind to worthwhile causes by serving on committees or in other civic-minded roles. If an organization holds a bake sale to raise funds, that’s a good indication that they need you.

People want to change the world, and that’s the right impulse, but one that can feel overwhelming to the point of inaction. There is real satisfaction - and there are actual results! - in taking on the task in the smaller ways. Check in on your neighbor. Read up on local politics. Talk to someone who disagrees with your world view.

You can be having a not-great day and still be a good person.

Keep a schedule! Not strict, but the basics., and stick to or return to those basics, even (especially!) when you aren’t quite feeling it. A go-to when the world feels chaotic and you need something familiar. Do the things your body needs. Keep it well-fed and hydrated. Bring snacks. Exercise in a way that makes you feel better when you’re done than when you started (and remember that the best mood-reset is often physical exercise or a change of scenery). Set those good habits on auto-pilot so they serve as the foundation for all the rest.

And although it can be more complicated, I have always thought the same about relationships, friends and romantic both. Be someone’s sunshine. Be their unshakable support. Be one another’s anchor so that taking on the world feels not only feasible, but inevitable (because they believe you can do it, and you believe they can, too). When you find the people who make you feel most yourself with the least effort (and vice-versa), you’re the luckiest in the world.

Make plans with the people who are important to you and keep those plans.

Don’t go to bed angry, but take it a step further and don’t go long at all. Communicate openly, honestly.

(This is the paragraph where you might roll your eyes and say “Mom” with a lot of extra syllables, because you already know, and you already do, and because I can be annoyingly hyper-focused on manners). Respond if someone invites you somewhere, and show up if you say you will. If you can’t, provide a valid reason. If it’s a gathering at someone’s house, show up with something nice. Always thank the host. Write a thank you note when someone gives you a gift.

Recognize people for the good they do. It’s if positive, and it’s between telling them and not, tell them! When someone is especially kind. When they do something especially well.

Leave your dorm room open as much as possible!

We talk so much about the social aspects of college, but oh my god, the learning. You’ll likely never again be in a position where dissecting poetry on a weekday in a classroom full of similarly passionate souls is your entire reason for being. Soak it up! Underline the words you like best. Please know (and I am biased, sure), no matter what they tell you, that reading for long stretches, writing through the often-fraught process of trying to get your thoughts to form a valid argument and lending a critical eye to art and literature, to music and the human constant of philosophical thought, is an excellent educational foundation for whatever you might do with the rest of your life.

Life is long. Yes, I know the saying is that “life is short.” But this - college - will be the genesis of and springboard for a million adventures. Have real, deep, uninterrupted fun.

There’s a lot of rushing these days. A lot of hastily made decisions. But I’ve found that, if you can take a beat, ignore the counterfeit crises born of our ceaseless tech, our endless access to information, invitations, choices…there is plenty of time to consider. Just consider! Think carefully, with purpose. It’s too easy to react immediately. Become comfortable with the discomfort, without distraction. But remember, too, that you have agency. We often aren’t as “stuck” as we think we are.

Feelings - and I don’t mean this as a dictate on all feelings, all experiences, because there is a range and our emotional state should, in necessary circumstances, be taken seriously - but most feelings, pass. What’s more, fully experiencing them makes us human, teaches us empathy.

You’re never going to get to some perfectly organized, perfectly know-what-you’re-doing place and that is…such a relief. It’s patience, it’s mindfulness. It’s presence. That’s what I want most for you this coming year, for all you young people. To be (stumbling sometimes, sure!) so there for it all. Open to all the gained wisdom that life always - and I mean always - grants us.

People are so endlessly interesting.

Lean in! Let existing connections get deeper, let new ones grow familiar. Turn it all into memories and art, learning and friendship.

Set your alarm. Find a favorite spot to study. Get off campus. Go to office hours.

I was incredibly touched by what the college chaplain said at the end of your convocation. That it’s typical, expected, for new college students to ask: “How will I belong here?” But that a better question is, “What did I do to help someone else belong?”

*****

Nora, this past summer you lived a life that I happily observed from the sidelines. Sort of this one-foot-out-the-door situation.

Because that’s the other part of this. Not to sound aggressive. But, as much I don’t want you to, it is time for you to go. Your independence like a propeller.

This summer I watched you - with the intensified gaze of an overly nostalgic mom - engage in and illustrate all the qualities, practices and values you’ve treasured and excelled at throughout the 17 years you’ve lived under our roof. Our responsible, witty, creative first child, guide and companion to your younger brother and North Star to your little sis. Lover of great music, discoverer of new artists; how many times did you send me a Spotify link and tell me, “listen to this, it’s good,” and it was so good? That time you, and me, and dad sat around our kitchen counter (the “original three!”) playing Dar Williams songs - Dar Williams, Nora, such a surprising artist for you to pull out of nowhere - and you knew, like, every single word to her entire discography. How, I wondered, then and after, does my teenage daughter know so many songs from the soundtrack of my youth?

I’m thinking, these days, about the countless times we sat around that kitchen counter during family dinners, a too-small space for the five of us but we’d gather there anyway, you asking us to name the “best, middle and worst” of our days, a sharing game you’d learned as a counselor-in-training at camp. Talking about our work and school schedules, making plans for weekends ahead. Telling us, dissolving into laughter, about a funny moment with a fellow student or teacher, the book you just started, your philosophy on life. How it was time to “kick it up a notch!” You’d sometimes linger after we cleared the plates for deeper conversations, or to talk through the many to-dos of your ever expanding universe.

You made our house a hub for kids who liked to jam, sing, who broke into harmonies like it was normal behavior. You and your bestie watching horror movies every Friday afternoon when you were out early from school, your in-unison screams something I grew to expect, plus the freshly-baked brownies in the kitchen. These nice teenagers, who’d talk to me about their lives. Guitars all over the living room, I was always knocking one over. You fostered friendship so easily, including with the children of me and dad’s friends, like fate, how fortunate are we?

How fortunate, to parent and now send a daughter - who is undoubtedly ready, who has so clearly picked the ideal place for the next phase of her life - off into the world.

You lived, this summer, with what felt like a new sense of purpose and responsibility that left me initially stunned, and eventually reassured.

You took (some might say “stole”) the gold earrings Nonna gave me because she didn’t wear them much anymore, and when I balked, responded with, “but don’t they look good?” They did look good, but what struck me more than that was how grown up you looked, a young woman. A woman, like my mom, so self-composed that it takes my breath away. It’s more than earrings, obviously, and it wasn’t just this summer: you’ve lived your whole life with responsibility and purpose. But lately, for me, approaching this milestone, it’s all come sharply into focus. I couldn’t, didn’t, ask for the earrings back (but seriously, don’t lose them).

I’ll be ok. Wise, experienced parents, have told me my emotions will settle, that we’ll see you more often than we think, that our relationship will thrive just like always. It will get even stronger.

But these moments, these hallmarks of our days with you, are what I can’t imagine my life without when, in this post-drop off period, I feel the tug of a good, long cry calling. So I’ll cry! I’ll await the relief and anticipate this exciting new stage. Because raising children has taught me nothing so powerful as that: it keeps getting better. And parents weekend is coming right up.

(I’ve already asked Gabe if he might start a band this year, something he’s always talking about. Because I want kids making music in our garage. It’s not fair for me to pressure him, but he said, “Yes. Definitely!”)

We’ll be cheering you on and are here when you need us.

“Take flight!” is what my dad, your Nonno, used to tell us. Not that he was the first to say it, but he loved this idiom, used it often, fist in the air, when my brother - your Uncle Vinnie - and I were about to embark on some major journey (college, a trip, a new job) or even on minor ones. He loved it when we did what we loved, shouted it from the rooftops. I want to celebrate this milestone, and all that will follow, full-heartedly, like he always did.

Not to be melodramatic - that’s not your style - but you, this, all that’s to come, is so worthy of celebrating. We are so ineffably proud of you.

On a practical note, we left the hanging mirror leaning, uninstalled, against your desk. We couldn’t find a way to mount it to the back of the door. I thought, as we left your dorm room, “well, she’ll figure it out.”

Nora, I hope you have the time of your life figuring it all out.

Take flight! And when you come home (“home!” a word that will mean many things in this thrilling new stage of your young life) we’ll all sit around the too-small space of our kitchen counter, and listen to your stories.

xoxoxo