By Amy Keyes 
This summer, every morning at 6:45 am sharp, my youngest son corralled me out the door so that he would be on time for his daily weight training and football practices. Monday through Friday. Without fail. I sat in the passenger seat and marveled at how driven and determined he was.
This is a kid who has never been easy to get up in the morning for school. A kid who, much like yours truly, has to run back inside multiple times to grab something forgotten. A kid who is never really early but has to work hard never to be late. It may not seem like a big deal, but day after day, it was not lost on me that getting out the door so early was no easy task for him, and yet he did it. Every day.
It’s no earth-shattering information that when someone loves something, it motivates them in ways that are intrinsic and real. And, my kid loves football. He’s not the biggest. Not the strongest. Not the starter. Not the one with the most playing time. But he loves the game. So much so, that he dedicated his whole summer, starting the day school ended, to showing up in all the ways he could to make himself better.
It’s something I am so proud of him for, and more importantly, something I try to remind him he should be so proud of himself for. He’s worked hard and dedicated countless hours to improving himself to grow as an individual and a team player. He has learned how to push himself harder than I knew he could and also, probably equally as important, how to listen to his body and advocate for when he feels like something is off.
This finally leads me to where I’m heading with all of this huge epiphany I’ve had this summer when it comes to how I have observed this youngest of mine, who will probably forever feel like a kid to me, become a young adult.
About a month ago, he came to me with the familiar frustration that he’s had for a few years now—a shoulder joint and scapula that consistently pops out of place while playing the sprts he loves. I’ve seen it happen, and it’s crazy. Like the kind of gaper’s-block, stop-you-in-your-tracks with a sound effect type crazy.
Last year when this was happening a lot and we were at this crossroads in his athletic journey, he did everything he could to push on. It took consistent nagging on my end to get him to go see the trainer. I followed up with her to make sure he had the information right. I made him see a chiropractor, who told us he likely had a tear in his labrum, and to focus on PT to strengthen the area around it. I bothered him all season to make sure he felt fine enough to keep playing.
Bottom line, I felt like I was the one making all the decisions to try to ensure that he could enjoy his first high school season on a team I knew he wanted to be on, doing a thing I knew he loved. And, in hindsight, probably avoiding the inevitable point that we find ourselves in now. Fast forward through a year of high-intensity high school sports—football, running, pole vaulting—and a summer of off-season training for another year, and he found himself back in the trainer’s office, with a strong recommendation to take it to the professionals, which we did.
Now, he is staring down a season on the sidelines with a healthy dose of PT to try to avoid a surgery that could sideline him for multiple seasons and sports. My initial reaction was to be devastated for him. But here’s the thing: he’s okay. Like, really, truly okay. This self-assured kid sees the long game while I am stuck in the emptiness of him missing the moment.
This year, he’s the one who walked into the trainer’s office all on his own. Coming back to me, armed with information about what our next steps needed to be. And, why it was important that this time we take them seriously and not try to push through.
He’s mentally prepared himself for this moment. Before even going to get an MRI, he made peace with having a role on the sidelines for the season with a team he loves, rather than taking the field to risk more injury. He, on his own, came to the decision to stay focused on the goal of recovering as best as he can for spring, so that he can go into that season of other things he loves, and back to football next year, stronger and more determined to meet his goals.
And I’m so incredibly inspired by this. By his maturity. By his insight. By his mindset that has shifted so poignantly into a new direction.
At his MRI, I watched him fill out the forms (all by himself), carefully reading through each question to make sure he responded correctly. Not needing any help from me. Not hesitating to take it up to the front desk on his own and ask if they needed anything else from him. And I sat back and marveled at how much someone can grow up in what seems to be the blink of an eye.
At his follow-up appointment, I listened to him talk with the doctor, making sure he was absorbing every detail to know what was coming his way. Asking the important questions. Processing the whole situation with a positive attitude and foresight I didn’t know a 15-year-old could have. I sat back and soaked in the realization that my kid is now a young adult. And he’s nailing it.
Looking at big pictures instead of the immediate gratification of the moment. Self-assured that he knows where he wants to go. And while he always knows that I’m right by his side to help get him there, I see him walking the path into adulthood paces ahead of me. That’s the goal all along, right? And also, my epiphany.
I know it is time to let that gap between childhood and the future be more his own than ours together. When he turns around, I’ll be there, as he confidently walks his own path forward.
by Gina Marie Bonifas 
by Susannah B. Lewis 
by Tatum Marlatt 
