Is the second-semester ache a thing?

Eight days ago I discovered a new emotional gear.

The last time I recall being my full emotional self was over four decades ago, when I was in first grade.

I remember this because not long after the school year began I cried every day—authentically and without a shred of filter—because I was terrified of my teacher, who humiliated me at circle time over my “weird” (Korean) middle name and who seemed to enjoy using me as a scapegoat for her discontent.

And then I was hit in the back of the head with a full soda can, thrown by one of a group of teenage boys who drove by, hanging out their car windows screaming, “Take that, chinks!”

I was out for a walk with my Mom in our Boston suburb where our “otherness” was plain.

I was 7 years old. 

The emotional calcification set in from there, as I learned that the cultural response was to be silent, compliant, and move on. This was both to avoid drawing attention and also to avoid being needy, whether from a material, physical, or emotional perspective. 

I was one of seven siblings and resources were scarce. Figuring shit out was a means for survival; the safety net was thin. And I also soon realized that if I didn’t want or need anything from someone else, then I couldn’t be let down. 

And so, I grew into an adult for whom self-sufficiency is a core value. I became a fighter—someone who figured shit out, didn’t need to ask for help, and was also a reliable force for others. A friend recently referred to me as the emergency pinch hitter you want on your team when the shit goes down because I will show up and get the job done no matter how intense and horrible the shit. 

It turns out that these qualities lined me up well for parenting since there is an endless stream of shit—literal and figural—to handle.

When my babies needed to be rocked, nursed, burped, or changed, I was there.

When my toddlers needed to be distracted, entertained, fed, or celebrated for landing a turd in the toilet, I was there.

When my little kids needed help acquiring art supplies for school projects, packing a lunch, or finding a snack, clean laundry, or missing item, I was there.

When my older kids needed help navigating a tough social situation, working through school frustration, or making decisions about clothes, skincare products, or gifts, I was there.

And so, you will not be surprised that when my older daughter Laurel was preparing to go to college this past fall and needed help assembling supplies, making a plan for move in day, and thinking through travel logistics, I was there.

Between my focus on the logistics and my confidence that Laurel was ready for the experience—the kid is aces in the life skills department—I was steady. I didn’t cry at drop off even though everyone around me was crying.

I just held. 

I was there.

That first semester required an extraordinary amount of care and attention. I was there at every turn, with a voluminous, steady stream of calls, texts, FaceTimes, pep talks, letters, care packages, train pickups and drop offs.

That first semester felt like a series of milestones—Laurel’s first birthday away from home, our first family weekend visit, Laurel’s first long weekend visit home navigating Amtrak by herself, my first birthday without Laurel at home, Laurel’s first return for Thanksgiving break, her first round of college finals—that culminated in making it to winter break.

It felt as if every milestone we hit, we exhaled, celebrated, and oriented our sightlines to the next milestone.

At each and every milestone, I was there.

But then something shifted in the second semester when Laurel headed back to school after winter break. I could feel the initial tug of it the moment she departed from South Station in Boston to take the Amtrak back to New York.

I started to feel a deep, palpable ache—a foreign feeling of missing and need.

OMG decades of self-programming and practice had taught me not to need. What was happening?

Perhaps it’s because Laurel is entrenched in her classes, training to become an EMT, and has formed secure attachments with a great group of friends.

Perhaps it’s because the intense emotional ups and downs of the first semester and the need to orient our sightlines on each forthcoming milestone have subsided.

Perhaps it’s because now that we are past that first semester—where contact was fast, furious, and sometimes intense—we have settled into a more relaxed rhythm of communication.

Perhaps it’s because now that we’re past the initial transition of college and middle school for my kids, I’m seeing them both through a different lens and feeling the pull of the years and their natural progression away from me.

I don’t know.

Or maybe I sort of know. 

Eleven days ago, Laurel came home for the President’s Day long weekend. The visit was lovely, including the usual fun and games and silliness and good food and poodle games that anchor our family.

And when it was time to drive her to the train station, all was well. We joked about campus shenanigans. We talked about train pee tactics and how to scope out trustworthy fellow passengers. She was departing from a different station than our usual South Station in Boston. When I drop her off at South Station, parking is not convenient so I pull up to the curb and she heads into the terminal on her own. This time, I was right on the track with her, and when it was time for her to board I gave her a big hug, feeling all of my usual confidence and joy in her ability to be out in the world. 

But as the train pulled away—Laurel of course found a seat right near where I was standing on the platform so we could wave and blow kisses—I felt my jaw begin to tremble and tears spring into my eyes. I watched the Amtrak train pull my daughter off into the distance, lurching then accelerating towards the city that now is her second home. When the train rounded a bend and I was sure she could no longer see me, I walked to the parking lot with the other people who had just dropped off their charges. They all seemed to get back to life in short order, pulling away, departing after a quick check of the phone.

And at that moment, the dull ache that had thrummed in my chest on and off for the duration of the second semester to date swelled to a gear I didn’t have the capacity for when I dropped Laurel off for college in the fall. 

I burst into tears and sobbed in my car—loud, heaving tears. And in the 30 minutes it took to drive home I burst into tears on and off, unable to control myself in the way to which I had grown accustomed.

It was a foreign yet somehow relieving feeling.

Because in that moment, I finally felt emotionally what I was able to articulate intellectually in this Instagram post when I dropped Laurel off at college. Yes, it is a gift to love and care so deeply. But I now realized that an eruption of tears is a natural reflection of love and care—not a sign of a loss of control or weakness, or an indication of me being needy.

I was there, in a new way, showing up fully with feelings that had been dormant for the last 42 years. 

I often joke that these days my life is more exhausting as a person who is finding their feelings, but I am, in fact, grateful to feel.

Is the second-semester ache a thing? Having articulated all of this, I suspect the ache may last well beyond the second semester, but I now welcome and am ready for it.

I am here.

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Endnotes

1. On her President’s Day weekend visit, Laurel brought a box of notes that she crafted, to help me through my moments of missing. Cue more tears—happy, grateful ones.

2. It is hard to believe that the connections detailed last week in making a case for slow reading, could deepen, but after that post went live I learned that Ilyon and my families are further connected—one of my sisters was her middle school lacrosse coach. OMG WHAT?!

3. If you need a master class in compassionate parenting, listen to this recent conversation I had with the incredible Dr. Tina Payne Bryson. I found myself teary at several points when we were recording. The feelings are real.