This spring, communities across the country will gather to celebrate a familiar milestone.
Caps and gowns, diplomas, graduation parties, proud parents taking photographs and trying, unsuccessfully, not to cry. We'll celebrate accomplishments, talk about futures and remind graduates that the world is full of possibility, and it is.
This year, I’m getting a little closer to that pivotal moment as a parent as my daughter graduates eighth grade and moves into high school this fall. It’s not the big graduation, but it has me thinking about that milestone, the one on the horizon four years from now, and about all the parents who are in that position right now, watching their baby put on the cap and gown.
Being a parent is a series of quiet transitions. The realization that another chapter is ending. The recognition that your child is becoming someone new. Parenthood has taught me many things, but perhaps the most surprising lesson is this:
You spend your entire life meeting new versions of your children.
The toddler who wants to hold your hand everywhere you go.
The elementary school student who thinks you know everything.
The middle schooler beginning to discover who they are.
The young adult preparing to leave home and build a life of their own.
Each version is wonderful.
Each version is unique.
And each one eventually disappears.
Not all at once, not dramatically, just gradually enough that one day you realize you've experienced something for the last time:
The last bedtime story.
The last time they asked you to tie their shoes.
The last time they climbed into your lap.
The last time they reached for your hand without thinking.
The last time they needed you in quite the same way.
When you're raising children, you don't often recognize those moments when they're happening. You only see them in the rearview mirror, and that's what I've been wrestling with lately. I am genuinely excited for the young woman my daughter is becoming. I love her curiosity and confidence, watching her develop interests, opinions and ambitions that are entirely her own. I love meeting each new version of her, but if I'm being honest, there is also a small sadness that accompanies that joy. Not because anything is wrong, it's quite the opposite. Because everything is unfolding exactly as it should.
The younger version of her, the little girl who once fit perfectly on my shoulders, who thought every answer could be found by asking Dad, is fading into memory. The funny thing is, at the time you don't know, those moments are becoming memories. They just feel like ordinary days, and while I wouldn't trade the person she's becoming for anything, I still find myself missing the child she was.
I've come to realize that parenthood is a constant exercise in holding two truths at the same time. You celebrate growth, and you mourn what has passed. You cheer for independence, and you miss being needed. You are grateful for every new chapter while quietly grieving the one that just ended. That isn't sadness, it's love.
Parenthood has been the greatest blessing and the greatest teacher of my life. It has taught me patience, humility, given me perspective, and perhaps most importantly, that love is not measured by how tightly we hold on. It's measured by our willingness to let go when the time comes.
To the graduating seniors: congratulations, you have reached a milestone worth celebrating. The future ahead of you will likely look different than you imagine today, and that's okay. Life has a way of taking us places we never planned to go. Stay curious, be kind, work hard, take chances, and remember that success is not measured only by what you achieve, but by how you treat people along the way.
And to the parents: Take the pictures, cry if you need to, celebrate every moment. Because one day you'll realize that what you thought was an ordinary Tuesday was actually the last time something happened, and you'll wish you had lingered just a little longer.
The beautiful and heartbreaking truth of parenthood is that our job is to prepare our children to leave us. If we've done our job well, they do, and that is both the reward and the cost.
This fall, my daughter will walk into high school.
A new chapter will begin, I'll be proud, I'll be excited, I'll probably be a little sad too. Because that's what happens when you love someone enough to watch them grow.
Every new version is a gift. Even when it means saying goodbye to the last one.
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Wayne Fournier is a firefighter, Thurston County commissioner and former mayor who has spent more than three decades working in public safety. His column appears in The Chronicle twice each month.
