That moment has arrived: the children have officially left the nest.
Matson just graduated from high school, and the hallway outside his bedroom has been overtaken by boxes, duffel bags, and suitcases, all prepped for packing. The challenge was his tight summer schedule—camp counseling, followed directly by his college move-in. So, we sorted everything into three categories: duffels for camp, suitcases for travel, and boxes for shipping to his out-of-state university.
With the possibility of selling our home and downsizing in the not-so-distant future, we also turned our attention to our daughter Flissy’s room. She’s heading into her senior year of college and has lived in her own apartment for two years. She has no plans to live here again.
“Why are we hanging onto all this stuff for Fliss?” I asked my husband as we stood in her doorway, surveying the room.
“Let’s pack it up and let her deal with it,” he replied, already gathering clothes from her dresser and tossing them onto the bed.
“Really?” I asked, hesitant. “You think that’s okay? Her apartment’s tiny.” I remembered how my own belongings stayed untouched in my childhood bedroom until I was thirty-six, helping my parents pack up their home for a cross-country move.
He laughed. “Of course it’s okay. She can give away what she doesn’t want or need.”
She could edit her things. I’m always encouraging my design clients to edit—and now it was time to take my own advice, or rather, pass it on.
We drove the SUV to Berkeley, every inch packed with the contents of her room. I’d saved a few treasures – some childhood art projects, the framed artwork from her walls, but otherwise, everything else was hers to sort through. She could reclaim it one day, when she had a home of her own.
When we arrived, she casually told my husband to dump everything on her bed. There was more than she remembered. Within minutes, we were knee-deep in clothes, handbags, and shoes. She seemed unfazed. I, however, was overwhelmed.
“You gonna be okay with all of this?” I asked on my way out.
“Yeah, don’t worry, Mom,” she said. “Most of it’ll be gone by dinner—donated to friends or left on the curb and labeled free. Things get swiped up quickly around this neighborhood.”
And that’s exactly what she did.
Sometimes we need to remind ourselves that we’ve raised capable children. Flissy has navigated three demanding years of complex biology coursework at one of the hardest universities in the country. She didn’t need my emotional cushioning. She needed me to trust her. And when it came to weeding through her bedroom leftovers, she was more than up to the task.
I wonder: do we avoid making our adult children responsible for their things because we think it will overwhelm them—or because letting go of the role we once played is too hard for us?
What I’m learning is this: letting go doesn’t mean abandonment. It means trust. And reclaiming the spaces in our home that once held their childhoods is not a betrayal of our love—it’s a reflection of our own growth. We are allowed to make room for what comes next. We are allowed to paint the walls, move the furniture, and breathe into the quiet. The house may be changing, but the love remains.
OHI HOME STYLE 