A Love Letter to the Mothers of Growing Children by Lynn Mendoza-Khan
I have been my son's first teacher. His first piano, first cello, first lullaby.
When he was two, I watched him read words aloud like they were music. At four, he could match pitch and sing do-re-mi with delight. By six, he held a cello half his size with a focus beyond his years. At ten, he touched the piano keys with a tenderness that made me cry. Now at twelve, with perfect pitch, he’s finishing Level 9 Suzuki cello, Level 6 Suzuki piano, and just passed Piano Level 8 of the OMTA syllabus.
I should be basking in pride.
And I am.
But underneath that pride is something quieter, heavier—
A kind of grief that sneaks in, not because anything is wrong, but because everything is changing.
He hasn't left, not physically. But I feel him stepping away.
The warm orbit we shared is stretching wider now—friendships, school, ideas beyond me.
I feel the shift in the silences, in the quick hugs, in how the music he plays is no longer just mine to witness, but his to explore.
And it’s right. This is what we’re supposed to do.
We raise them to grow strong enough to go out into the world.
We teach them to love things that take time, patience, discipline—
hoping, praying, that those habits will shape a life worth living.
But no one tells you how it will hollow you in places you didn’t know were full—
How missing them isn’t reserved for when they leave home,
but starts in quiet moments, when they choose solitude,
or friends,
or independence
over your lap, your stories, your voice.
To the mother reading this:
You’re not broken. You’re breaking open.
This is love, transformed.
This is the cost of doing it well.
So we stay steady. We choose faith, not fear.
We honor the brief hug, the glance, the moments when they still come back.
We remember that the seeds we planted are meant to become trees we can’t always climb.
And we keep loving—quietly, fiercely, patiently.
We’ve given them the music.
Now we must let them write the melody.
