The Silent Storm: Parenting a High School Senior
When pride and heartbreak walk hand in hand.
There’s a quiet, almost unspeakable grief that lives in the hearts of many parents of high school seniors. It’s a strange season—one that comes with caps and gowns, senior portraits, last dances, and final games. The world expects celebration, excitement, and Instagram-worthy milestones. But beneath it all, for many parents, there's a storm gathering. A looming ache. A sense that something precious is slipping through their fingers.
And no one really talks about it.
You may be living in what I call “the duality zone.” Maybe your teen is pulling away with more eye-rolls, one-word answers, and a palpable impatience. Or maybe they’ve turned tender, unusually clingy, coming into your room more often to chat or needing you to help with something they’ve been capable of doing on their own for years. Either way, your heart knows: this is the last lap. The last year of “normal.” And it’s excruciating.
You might find yourself crying in the laundry room. (Been there.) Folding clothes and suddenly remembering the tiny socks, the muddy soccer uniforms, the glitter-stained art projects. You remember the little fingerprints on the fridge door and the way their backpack used to seem bigger than they were.
You may want to feel excited—everyone expects you to be excited. But your body won’t let you. Because it’s grieving.
And that grief is real.
When I dropped off my oldest at college, I cried the whole flight home. I mean the whole flight. Not a dainty tear down the cheek. I'm talking red eyes, scrunched tissue, silent sobbing into the airplane window. The flight attendant looked at me funny. I didn’t care. I was mourning. Mourning the end of a chapter so deeply woven into my identity, it felt like losing a limb.
I was no longer the daily, front-line parent. I was stepping into the fourth stage of parenting—the stage no one warns you about. The stage where you parent an adult child. A child you once fed from a spoon, taught to read, and stayed up late worrying about. Now you must watch from a distance. Cheer from the sidelines. Offer wisdom only when invited. And trust—really trust—that you’ve done enough.
It is brutal. It is beautiful. It is both.
And it’s okay if your body is catching up more slowly than your brain. You know it’s good and right and a sign of growth. But you’re also feeling like someone punched a hole in your chest.
This is the emotional labor of letting go. And it deserves to be witnessed.
So here’s my hand on your shoulder, friend. Here’s a warm, tight, ugly-cry-acceptable hug. If you’re a parent of a high school senior, I see you. I feel you. And I’m here to tell you: you’re not crazy. You’re not weak. You’re not alone.
This stage is a doozy. But I’m here to support you through it.
Drop a comment if you’re feeling it—I want to hear you. Let’s make space for the growing pains of parenting in public, together. Because behind every proud graduation photo is a parent holding back tears... or not holding them back at all.
I’m cheering you on.
With so much love,
Ashley