Like every 4 year old, I remember the first day of preschool: never letting go of my parent’s leg, crying in hopes they could stay, and wishing I could just go back to a place I found familiar. I also stepped on small legos a lot and that was just the worst.
And now I’m older. Some would even consider me an adult, which is even crazy to consider. But imagining saying goodbye to those I love brings me the same pain as a preschooler saying goodbye to their mother for the first time.
I never forget the simple times I’ve been happy; I remember when my dad would lift me on his shoulders when I was light enough, when the ceiling lamp on the second floor had worked so I wouldn’t stub my toe in the dark, and when I would bring milk to softball practice instead of water.
And sure there are times when I remember my guitar string breaking when I was tuning it, when I would wake up in the middle of the night because I was too hot for comfort, or when I would drink a glass of milk that was just expired enough that I would feel bad to throw it out but not enjoy drinking it.
But when a major event occurs, such as a parent saying goodbye to their child for the first time, it’s never not out of love. You leave for a reason; albeit growth, independence, or experience, that’s just a part of life. And it is always for the best.
And it is always, always out of love.