Every August, campus dorms are filled with moving carts, nervous excitement, and the anticipation of new experiences. For weeks, anticipation builds as Amazon orders with college student items are delivered to our front doors. Yet for parents, the transition of sending an 18-year-old into their next chapter brings a quiet ache mixed with pride. Whether your child is moving across the country, staying close enough for weekend visits, or even commuting from home, this milestone carries profound shifts—not just for them, but for you.
This is not only their launch into adulthood. It is yours, too.
There’s a moment every parent remembers: standing in the doorway of a dorm room, the walls still in transition, boxes half unpacked, realizing you are about to drive away without your child. Whether the drive is forty minutes or four hours, the distance is measured not in miles but in shifts of identity.
As I often tell parents:
“When your child launches into adulthood, you’re not just sending them off — you’re being launched, too. Into a new chapter of parenthood you didn’t practice for.”
Some families imagine the transition will be easier because the college is close by. I think of Melissa, whose son chose a school just forty minutes away. She reassured herself that football games and Sunday dinners would keep them connected. But two days after move-in, she texted to ask how classes were going. Hours later, she received a reply so brief it stung: “good” – no punctuation, no details. Just a single word. For her, it felt like a dismissal. For him, it was a quiet way of saying, I’m fine. Young adults often communicate in shorthand—quick acronyms, snaps without captions, or by leaving a message on “read.” It isn’t indifference; it’s autonomy in progress.
Other families face the opposite challenge—distance measured in hours and flights. I recall one father who described hugging his daughter goodbye in a California parking lot and feeling as though the ground shifted beneath him. On the plane ride home, he reflected on all the things that was seemingly undone – logistics about living space, grocery shopping, curiosity about how she would navigate living without someone to check in with. Parents in this situation often feel the absence physically—a quiet dinner table, an empty chair on Sundays—but it’s also a psychological absence. Erikson reminds us that this stage is about identity for both generations: the child forging selfhood away from home, the parent rediscovering who they are beyond daily caretaking.
And then there are families where the child stays home but insists on more autonomy. That shift can be the hardest of all. A daughter who once respected curfews now argues, “I’m 18! I’m not in high school anymore.” Parents feel as if they’re losing control in their own home, while the young adult feels suffocated. It’s not really about distance; it’s about redefining respect under one roof. When one person’s role changes, the whole family system has to adjust.
Psychologically, this is where the push-pull begins. Across all three scenarios, the same themes emerge: independence collides with the longing for continued connection. Parents are often surprised by how deeply their own identity is tied to their child’s daily life—coordinating schedules, sharing household responsibilities, offering reminders. Letting go of those roles can feel like a loss of purpose.
Yet, no matter the circumstance, the tension is the same: young adults push toward independence while parents pull to stay connected. This push–pull isn’t a sign something is wrong. It is the developmentally-appropriate transitional challenge at this stage of life.
Jean Piaget’s work reminds us that by late adolescence, young people are operating within the stage of formal operational thought. They can think abstractly, reason hypothetically, and imagine future possibilities — all of which fuels their need to establish themselves apart from their family system. What parents often interpret as withdrawal or detachment is, in Piaget’s frame, part of a natural cognitive expansion. The ability to reflect on one’s own identity and choices — to individuate — depends on pulling back from parental influence long enough to imagine alternatives. It’s less about rejecting family, and more about testing the edges of selfhood with a newfound cognitive toolkit.
For the young adult, individuation often looks like clipped replies, missed calls, days of silence, or one-word texts. Parents tend to read these as rejection: “If they cared, they’d call. If I mattered, they’d tell me more.” But what looks like indifference is often the opposite. Many withdraw not because they don’t care, but because they know they can’t practice independence if they’re constantly reporting home. Silence, or brevity, becomes a way responding not because they don’t care, but because they are focused on their immediate surroundings.
Psychologist Jeffrey Arnett extends this understanding with his theory of emerging adulthood, describing the ages 18 to 25 as a distinct developmental period. It is a time marked by exploration, instability, self-focus, and the gradual assumption of adult responsibilities. Students are consumed by immediate concerns: waking themselves up, finding their way across campus, managing money, choosing friends, and carving out identity in real time. From a parent’s perspective, this narrowed focus on self can feel like disregard or distance. In reality, it reflects the developmental task of orientation — young adults must turn their attention inward and outward toward their new world in order to solidify a sense of autonomy. Arnett’s framework normalizes the turbulence of this stage and helps parents understand that their child’s apparent preoccupation with self is not rejection, but the work of becoming.
As parents, we must remember: they are not going to get this “right.” Mistakes are part of the process. They will overspend, oversleep, and sometimes unabashedly ask for money. They will say they don’t need you and then lean heavily on you when life feels overwhelming. Paradoxically, these moments of reaching back are signs of connection. Asking for help means they still see you as a tether, a secure base.
Parents, meanwhile, carry their own fears. If they don’t need me every day, do I still matter? If I don’t check in, will something terrible happen? If we don’t talk daily, will the bond disappear? These questions are deeply human. But attachment theory offers a gentle reframe: security isn’t about constant contact; it’s about trust in availability. Your child doesn’t need you to be in every conversation. They need to know you’re steady, reliable, and safe to return to.
This is where I often challenge parents to shift their own patterns. Send a text not because you expect an immediate response, but because you want to keep the line warm. Share a photo of something that made you laugh or think of them. Let them know you enjoy hearing from them, but resist guilt or complaint if they go quiet. If they finally call after a week of silence and you start the conversation with, “Why haven’t I heard from you?” the moment of connection collapses into shame. Meet their effort with welcome, not reproach.
Practical Guidance for Parents
- Allow Space Without Abandonment: Shift from managing details to offering support when asked. Presence matters, but hovering undermines autonomy.
- Negotiate New Boundaries: Whether in the dorm or at home, clarify expectations around communication, responsibility, and respect. Invite your young adult into these conversations as an equal partner.
- Redefine Connection: Instead of daily check-ins, consider weekly rituals—a Sunday night call, a shared playlist, or even mailing handwritten notes.
- Rediscover Yourself: This season invites parents to reconnect with passions, friendships, and goals that may have been paused during intensive years of parenting.
I also remind parents that mistakes are not failures. They are practice. Overspending, missing deadlines, asking for help—these are all part of building adult muscles. When you can see them as evidence of tethering rather than evidence of weakness, you’ll respond with guidance rather than judgment.
And finally, it helps to remember your role is shifting, not disappearing. You are no longer the daily manager of their life. You are their consultant, their cheerleader, and occasionally, their safety net. That is not a lesser role. It is the one they will turn to for decades if you allow the relationship to grow with them.
So, if you find yourself standing in a dorm room doorway, or waiting at home for the garage door to open at midnight, know that the ache you feel is part of the process. You are doing the work of letting go without losing touch, of grieving without disengaging, of learning to stand beside your child rather than in front of them.
And if you feel both proud and heartbroken, you are not alone. Every parent walking across a campus lawn or waiting up at the kitchen table knows the same ache. It means you’ve loved well.
