My oldest son is spending the first week of summer away from home, on vacation with a friend. While I’m sure he’s going to have the time of his life, this last-minute addition to our summer plans wasn’t exactly part of the picture I had in my head, and part of my brain is having a hard time reconciling that.

Ten years ago, I never could have imagined him that far from home for that long. But as I stand on the edge of what feels like a new phase, I’ve found myself thinking about the intensity with which millennials (and honestly, Gen X too) have been encouraged to parent.

We’ve been taught that “good” parents, particularly good mothers, are all in. Fully engaged at work, fully engaged at home, making the best possible choices in every area of our children’s lives, from screen time limits to the organic contents of their lunchboxes.

And this starts before they even arrive.

I distinctly remember feeling extreme mom guilt about flying on an airplane twice a week while pregnant with my first child. Was he harmed? Not in the slightest. He’s currently at the beach soaking in the sun with his friend. But at the time, I genuinely worried that the change in altitude might somehow derail his future success.

Once they arrive, the guilt gets company. Along with it comes the steady stream of commentary and judgment disguised as helpful advice from other adults. Notice I didn’t say parents, because advice is absolutely not limited to people actively trying to wrangle feral humans.

As my oldest starts to stretch his wings and make his first feeble attempts at solo flight, I find myself wondering whether this level of intense parenting is actually healthy for us as parents. 

What happens when our baby birds do exactly what we’ve spent years preparing them to do?

Because that’s the goal, right? Independence. Self-sufficiency. Adulthood.

But there’s a cost.

The cost is the version of ourselves we’ve slowly set aside in the effort to be good moms. (Good parents, yes, but I’m speaking from the mom perspective here.) I know there are women who seem to beautifully balance personal ambition, family responsibilities, and a strong sense of self. Maybe some even do it without guilt or regrets. But for most of us, something has to give because there simply aren’t infinite hours in the day.

Maybe what gives is career growth. Maybe it’s work altogether. Maybe it’s time with our kids because the bills need to be paid. Whatever the trade-off, parenting always demands sacrifice.

Lately, I’ve found myself in Target in the morning. Besides the occasional frazzled person rushing to work, the store seems to be filled with two groups: moms with littles and older adults. And I keep wondering, when did I become a mom of bigs?

When did slow Target trips meant to kill time until nap time become rushed attempts to grab (most of) the right groceries before yet another sports practice pickup? When did worries about sleep schedules and potty training become anxiety over whether we’re preparing them the right way for college?

Even my social media has changed. Gone are the toddler meal recommendations and potty training hacks, replaced by admissions essay advice and dorm decorating ideas.

The transition has been so gradual, I’m not sure I fully noticed it happening until I stopped to look around.

Seven years ago, we moved to Georgia with three little kids. Our oldest was 7, our youngest was almost 3, and life revolved around snacks, naps, and survival. Now we have four kids, ranging in age from almost 15 to 4. This phase is completely different but no less complicated, no less time-consuming, and no less emotionally exhausting.

Maybe this is hitting harder because summer feels different this year. And when I look around at my friends, I realize their lives have changed too.

I’ve been blessed with a tribe of women who have walked through the phases of motherhood with me. We’ve done everything from infants to teen drivers together. Watching their families grow and shift reminds me that I’ve also changed.

We’re no longer swapping toddler sleep tips or preschool recommendations. Now we’re trading advice on curfews, grades, and keeping teenagers safe and mostly out of serious trouble.

And as I think about all of these changes, I find myself wondering what parenting, and this tribe of women look like in five years. Ten. Twenty.

In twenty years, all my chickadees will have flown the coop (one can dream, right?). My oldest will be in his mid-thirties, and my youngest should be finishing college. Sports practices, school pickups, and college applications will be distant memories.

The quiet I currently fantasize about will be real. I’ll have caught up on the laundry. I won’t have to make dinner unless I actually want to.

And if I’m being honest, that future feels both impossible and a little melancholy.

I want them to grow up. I know this phase can’t last forever, and most days I wouldn’t want it to.  

But we spend years preparing them to leave, and no one really talks about how we’re supposed to prepare ourselves.

No one talks about what happens when your presence is no longer mandatory under the Friday night lights, when your weekends become your own, when summer schedules no longer dictate your life, and when the friendships built in the trenches of motherhood begin to shift and fade.

So as the first waves of millennial moms start launching kids into the wild, I find myself wondering: where does all that intense parenting leave us, and who are we when they no longer need us in quite the same way?