By Amy Keyes 
Back in the day, when I applied for college, my options were limited. By geography. By my GPA. By my ACT score.
I didn’t have the accolades that my college-bound son does to make the decision process as difficult as his was. A recruited athlete. A national merit scholar. A rock-solid ACT score. Not bound by us to any geographic region.
All the things.
I share this not to brag, but rather to paint the picture of the incredible options he had to choose from. And let me say, the decision-making was brutal.
It started with ruling out most of his dream options because he’s smart like that and thinks with his head, not just his heart. Realizing the debt that comes along with the mountains and oceans and parts of the map that he so deeply yearns to build a future in wasn’t something he was ready to step into.
This was followed by the weight of a decision that would allow him to run for a collegiate team at a smaller school—a critical choice for a kid with team sports so deeply rooted in his identity.
After what seemed like an excruciatingly difficult decision-making process, we were surprised, and quite frankly thrilled that our son decided to follow in our footsteps at an incredible Midwest school (go Badgers!).
We had done our very best to step back from any pressure or influence as he made his choice, knowing full well anything we said would feel like a push in the direction of the cheese curds, brats, and Memorial Union Terrace dreams of our own college years. We wanted him to make his decision on his own, and in all honesty, I can say I feel good about how we backed off.
And now, here we are. On the other side of the circle of life. Embracing the magic of our memories, as our kid steps in to create his own.
This is a really tricky thing to do. I know this is where the real work of letting go begins. For us, it’s not just letting go of him. There’s also a layer to lift, of letting our memories and experiences take a back seat, so this place that means so much to us as individuals, as a couple, as a family, can become what it’s meant to be for him.
I had my first test of this recently at college orientation.
Memories of my own first glimpse of college with my parents by my side came rushing back full force. I can recall it so vividly—the excitement and wonder I felt, as my parents, who for the record, were younger than I am now, navigated the emotions of sending their first child off to the unknown. Releasing me into a world that they would soon leave me to create for myself.
There’s a magical feeling when I enter this college town. It’s a time and place in my life that built so much of my identity. It’s where I made some of my best friends. It’s where I fell in love. It’s where I learned how to cook for myself. Navigate a new city. It’s where I learned the skills to be successful in my first profession, and where I gained the confidence to speak up for what I believe in. It’s where I ended up getting married, and later naming our youngest son after the street where we had our first date.
Everything there brings back a moment in time that still captures my heart in some way.
And so it took everything in me not to make that orientation about my memories. It took everything I had to remember this time is about his future, not my past.
I met other alumni parents and guardians I could see were as deeply rooted in nostalgia as I was. They were listening in on the orientation parent sessions with one ear in the present and one ear ringing with memories of the good old days.
The last session of the parent orientation was a student panel. A new generation there to share their wisdom with the old. The mic being handed to those of us holding onto pieces of our past, to ask questions to those unlocking their futures. Everything from dorm essentials, to advice about transportation, to food preferences and football games. These kids were poignant and articulate, and shared a wealth of incredible resources and information.
But the one thing I walked away with that stuck with me the most was the student who talked about what it was like to be the child of a parent who attended this school 35 years ago. To be the kid of a parent who got stuck in his own memories more than noticing how much this place has changed, both literally and figuratively. To be the child of a parent who had a hard time remembering that 35 years ago was a lifetime ago, and could they please instead just be the child of a parent who is just letting their child go to college?
Not his dad’s college.
Not my college.
Not my husband’s college.
And that was an epiphany for me. I can appreciate my college past without imposing it on my son’s college future. I can hold space for the memories, without them overtaking the present for him.
So, I’ll remember this the next time I enter this magical town.
I’ll remember the road ahead is his, and I’m there to enjoy the ride from the other side of the circle of life.
by Lisa Leshaw 
