Bittersweet Independence: A Mama’s Heart as Kale Steps Into His Next Chapter

By Lori Conway, Crazy Busy Mama – with special guest, my son Kale

As a mom, you spend years preparing your kids for independence—tying their shoes, teaching them to ride a bike, helping them learn how to drive, encouraging them to chase dreams that seem miles away. You know the day will come when they’ll step out on their own. And you think you’ll be ready.

But here’s the truth no one tells you: when that moment comes, it’s never just excitement. It’s a special blend of joy, pride, and something I like to call momincholy—that ache that says, “I’m so happy for you… But I’m going to miss you like crazy.”

That’s where I am right now with my son Kale.

He’s 21, and he’s about to head to Grand Canyon University in Phoenix for his junior year. We’ve had years of baseball games, college transfers, late-night talks, and quiet car rides that said more than words ever could. And now, we’re standing at this moment that feels so big it’s almost hard to wrap my mind around.

I want to share Kale’s own words here, because nothing captures this transition quite like hearing it from him.

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Kale’s Words: Stepping Into Bittersweet Independence

So here I am, standing in a half-packed room, just taking it all in. It’s this mix of packed up bags and memories as I get ready to head out to Grand Canyon University in Phoenix for my junior year. And it’s hitting me that this isn’t just another college move. It’s a leap into a whole new chapter of independence.

I’ve been on a winding road to get here. I started off playing baseball at State Fair, transferred to Mineral Area, and then came back home to Maple Woods after my dad passed away. Each of those steps had its own weight, and they’ve all led me back to this moment where at 21, I’m ready to start my own life, for real this time.

It’s a bittersweet feeling, honestly. There’s the excitement of stepping into independence, of carving out a space that’s truly mine. But there’s also that tug at my heart, leaving home knowing I probably won’t be coming back to live here again. And it’s all layered with the memory of my dad knowing how much has changed since he’s been gone, and how much he’s shaped the strength I’m carrying with me.

So as I stand here, I’m letting myself feel that vulnerability. It’s okay to admit that it’s a little scary and a little sad, but it’s also a beautiful step forward.

I guess that’s the heart of it: standing here in this half-packed room, I’m feeling the full weight of how much has changed and how much I’ve grown. It’s a mix of honoring my dad’s memory, embracing the excitement of this new chapter, and knowing that even though it’s hard to leave, it’s the right time to step into my own life. So here’s to the next step, with all its bittersweetness, and all its hope.

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A Mama’s View of Bittersweet Independence

Reading Kale’s words hits me in that deep mama place—the one where pride and momincholy dance together. I see the strong, capable man he’s become, but I also see flashes of the little boy who once ran through the house in baseball cleats and grass-stained pants, or his new school project.

And here’s the selfish truth: I’m sad. Yes, I’m excited. Yes, I know this is exactly what we’ve been preparing him for. But I’m also selfishly sad because the day-to-day with him is about to change. No more hearing the garage door at midnight when he comes home from work. No more quick lunch dates. No more last-minute, “Hey, want to watch a movie?” evenings.

That’s what bittersweet independence is for a mom—it’s knowing your child is ready to fly but wishing you could keep them in your nest just a little longer.

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The Road That Brought Us Here

Kale’s journey hasn’t been a straight line. It’s been full of curves, detours, and rest stops that shaped who he is today.

From State Fair to Mineral Area to Maple Woods, each move was more than just a change in schools—it was a chapter in resilience. When his dad passed away, Kale’s world shifted in ways no 19-year-old should have to experience.

But he stayed steady. He stayed close to his siblings. He made decisions with maturity beyond his years. And now, he’s stepping into this new chapter with a confidence that only comes from walking through storms and still finding the strength to keep moving forward.

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A Mother’s Momincholy

There’s something about packing your child’s room that makes time feel strange. You’re folding shirts and suddenly you remember when you used to fold onesies. You’re wrapping up dishes for a dorm kitchen, and you remember setting a plate in front of them when they were barely tall enough to see over the table.

Momincholy isn’t just sadness—it’s a deep, grateful ache. It’s holding the joy of seeing your child’s future bloom while also grieving the seasons that are ending. It’s a reminder that motherhood is a series of letting go, one bittersweet independence at a time.

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Why Bittersweet Independence Matters

It’s tempting to think of independence only as a victory—a “we did it” moment for parents. And yes, it is that. But the bittersweet side matters just as much.

That bittersweetness is proof of connection. It means we’ve built something worth missing. It means there’s love deep enough to make parting hard. And it means our children leave not because they’re running from us, but because they’ve been rooted well enough to grow beyond us.

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Lessons From This Season

1. Let them own their journey. Kale’s path wasn’t mine to chart—it was mine to cheer for. Every school, every sport, every change was a step toward him discovering who he is.
2. Embrace the momincholy. Don’t push away that ache—it’s a sign you’ve loved well.
3. Stay connected creatively. Distance changes how you connect, but it doesn’t have to weaken it. Phone calls, texts, care packages—they matter.
4. Keep the door open. Even if they never move back in, they’ll always know they can come home.

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Holding the Memory of His Dad

One of the most moving parts of Kale’s reflection is the thread of his dad’s memory woven into this new season. His dad shaped so much of who Kale is—his work ethic, his sense of humor, his determination.

Even though his dad isn’t here to watch him load up the car for Phoenix, I know he’s proud. I can almost hear him saying, “Go get ‘em, kid,” with that same grin that used to light up the stands at Kale’s baseball games.

That’s part of the beauty of bittersweet independence—you carry those you’ve loved and lost into every new step you take.

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The Phoenix Leap

Phoenix is far—miles and miles from our front porch. But it’s exactly where Kale needs to be right now.

Grand Canyon University isn’t just another campus for him—it’s a launching pad. It’s where he’ll learn, grow, make friends who will shape his adult life, and step further into the man God’s called him to be.

And while my mama heart aches, my faith steadies me. I know the same God who’s been faithful in the valleys will be faithful in this new place.

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Closing From Lori: The Beauty of Bittersweet Independence

So here we are—me on one end of the country, Kale on the other, both stepping into new seasons.

For him, it’s independence, opportunity, and adventure.
For me, it’s trust, release, and a whole lot of momincholy.

I’ve learned that bittersweet independence is one of motherhood’s greatest paradoxes. You spend years raising them to be ready for this, and then when they are, you secretly wish you could rewind.

But this is what love does—it lets go. It cheers from a distance. It trusts that the roots you’ve given will hold, even as they reach for the sky.

Kale, if you’re reading this from your new dorm room in Phoenix, know this: I am so proud of you. I’m thankful for the man you’ve become, the resilience you’ve shown, and the faith you carry.

Here’s to your next chapter—with all its bittersweetness, all its independence, and all the hope in the world.