My Daughter Is Leaving for College. Naturally, I’m Researching Tiny Freezers
On writer’s block, launching a child, and the feelings we try to store away
Like lots of writers, writing is how I put my semi-obsessive mind to use. But lately that necessary obsessiveness has been redirected elsewhere, making it nearly impossible to write. It took me awhile to figure out what was going on, but when you wake up in the middle of the night more than once needing to solve the urgent life mystery of standing hamper versus hanging hamper for a tiny dorm room or the existential question of soft-sided versus hard-sided under-bed storage, you begin to realize your brain is processing something else.
That "something else," it turns out, is my daughter leaving for college.
The intensity of my feelings about it has taken me by surprise. I love fiercely, but I am not a particularly sentimental person. I am not the mom who cried at Kindergarten graduation—or even high school graduation. As a working mother with little help and a family a thousand miles away, I have enjoyed the growing independence (and fewer tantrums) of my kids.
Sure, I still miss my babies and swoon over videos of them throwing themselves into my arms. And I miss those years between seven and eleven, when things got easier—when they were more independent but still loved cuddles, bedtime stories, and dance parties. The middle school years still crack me up when I remember those first eye rolls and how embarrassing my mere presence felt when their friends were around; when dependency felt humiliating. And as the teen years recede, I know I'll miss those too—the unpredictable pendulum swing between pushing me away and reaching for me.
But missing those stages is different than being preoccupied with them. And right now I can think of little else besides my daughter fleeing the nest. She has been talking about college since she was in fifth grade when she and her then-BFF were planning on UCLA because it had a good gymnastics team for her friend and California weather for her. Other than the horror of leaving her current BFFs behind, she’s ready (except maybe for the freezing cold in the decidedly-not-Californian destination she’s chosen).
The hardest part will be not knowing if she’s safe in her new home every night. But I know I will also miss the sounds of her rattling around the house: the opening of the full fridge, then the full cupboard, followed by a sigh that there's nothing to eat. The sound of her walking through the front door and saying in the sweetest voice ever, "heeeyyy girls," as she greets our dogs. The electric bass drifting up from the basement as she practices, or the sound of her giggling like mad with friends in her room. Most of all, I'll miss the nightly clinking of spoon against bowl coming from her bedroom as she engages in her years-long ritual of munching on frozen blueberries before bed.
How will she survive without those nightly blueberries? I have endlessly researched extra-miniature freezers that she might get away with having in her dorm despite the no-kitchen-appliances rule.
Of course, I want her to be comfortable in a space where everything fits. But I also know that no matter how cleverly I use the vertical space to create more room, no matter how many Command hooks, hoodie hangers, or under-bed organizers I buy, everything will still end up on the floor. I know that with every cell in my body, and yet I can't stop.
And even if I skip the freezer, or she chooses the "wrong" shower caddy, and dorm-room disorder inevitably ensues, she'll be perfectly fine. I know that too. And yet I can't stop.
So what is really going on for me…and maybe for some of you too?
Maybe I'm not really trying to organize a dorm room. Maybe I'm trying to organize something much harder to contain—my feelings.
If I can find just the right storage solution, maybe I can make sense of this jumble of grief, excitement, pride, anxiety, and envy. Maybe I can neatly pack away that strange, messy ache that comes from wanting something so much for your child while simultaneously mourning what it means for you. If each feeling can slide into its own neatly labeled compartment of a five-drawer rolling cart with caster wheels, maybe they’ll stay put, neatly sorted, never spilling over.
But feelings are a lot like stuff in a dorm room: no matter how carefully you try to contain them, they eventually end up in a heap on the floor, demanding your attention.
You can stack storage bins, maximize closet space, and optimize every square inch of an 8-by-10 room. You can’t optimize your way through loving someone enough to let them go.
The feelings find you eventually. They show up as irritability or depression. They masquerade as productivity or procrastination, sending you down internet rabbit holes comparing bed toppers and shoe organizers. They show up as relentless cheerfulness, as if refusing to acknowledge the loss might make it disappear. Or they become writer’s block because your mind is busy solving problems your heart needs you to feel.
And if we refuse to process feelings, we risk doing something far more consequential than buying the wrong shower caddy: we risk asking our children, however subtly, to carry our feelings for us. We hold on just a little too tightly at precisely the moment they’re learning they can and must stand on their own.
The thing that really needs organizing is not my daughter’s dorm room, but enough space inside myself for grief and joy to coexist. They have to learn to live together in the same tiny emotional space.
I don't know if my writer's block is resolved. But this week I had lunch with two friends who have already launched their kids. I complained that I couldn’t write and floated my theory that I’d become consumed by storage because I was trying to find a place to put all the feelings that come with this transition. They looked at each other and smiled.
“Write that.”
They reminded me that we write best when we write what we know—or perhaps more accurately, from where we are in our own lives.
It turns out I wasn’t out of ideas. I was just spending my creative energy trying to solve a problem that couldn’t be solved with Command hooks or rolling carts.
Apparently, where I am right now is somewhere between a hanging hamper and a goodbye.
If you know someone who might relate to this essay, please share it with them. And let me know in the comments if you’d like intel on tiny freezers, hanging hampers, or other highly researched dorm-room storage solutions :)
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So well written! I like to think of this parenting stage as recalibrating vs letting go. Makes more sense to my brain and my kid’s brain.
For someone who is having trouble writing, you do a beautiful job of it. 😉 This post is so relatable on several levels -- not the least of which is the use of in-depth "shower caddy research" as a coping mechanism.