How can this be?

My little girl is graduating from elementary school.

Six years ago, I sat in this very same gymnasium for the parents’ night discussion about kindergarten. After that evening, I came home and wrote one of my very first blog posts: The Kindergarten Blues.

Now I watch my daughter and her friends, most of whom have been together since day one. They all look so grown up now, so tall. They wear their graduation caps with such pride, and they’ve certainly earned them. After all, these are the kids who started school during a global pandemic. They missed half of their kindergarten year together in person, and then had to return wearing masks and staying socially distanced.

They’ve always been a tight-knit group. Class sizes here were small, so they truly got to know one another in a way many don’t. My heart aches knowing their time together is officially ending. Yes, many will attend the same school next year, and some may even end up in the same classes. But it won’t ever be quite the same again. There will be new faces, new friendships, and new interests. And that’s how it should be. But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Each school becomes its own little community, where everyone knows everyone. I will dearly miss ours. The support system we found here has been invaluable, helping us navigate the ups and downs of childhood, academics, and everyday life. All those daily drop-offs and pickups where parents and kids caught up, shared news, and supported each other. The incredible teachers who worked tirelessly to give our children the best education possible, who were welcoming and supportive, and who loved our kids so fiercely.

From our kitchen window, I can see the school. It has always brought me comfort to look down the road and know that my daughter was safe within those walls. Sometimes, I’d catch a glimpse of her class walking past our house on their way to the park or the basketball court. But next year, when I look out that window, for the first time in six years, she won’t be there. I’ll never again see her with her class walking by. She’ll be at a school further away, out of my sight. And just picturing that breaks my heart into a million tiny pieces.

This week has stirred up so many emotions. While I’m incredibly proud of my little girl and excited for the new adventures ahead, I’m also profoundly sad. I’ve never been good with endings or change. I’m the one who clings to routine, to loved ones, to what is familiar and safe. Embracing the unknown has never come easily to me.

So I’m going to try – really, really try – to take the advice from one of my favorite movies, Hope Floats (1998):

“Beginnings are usually scary, endings are usually sad, but it’s the middle that counts the most. You need to remember that when you find yourself at the beginning. Just give hope a chance to float up.”

Fly high, Class of 2025. I’ve watched you grow with awe and pride, and I know you’re going to change the world in ways both beautiful and brave. This may be the end of one precious chapter, but there are so many more waiting to be written – each filled with new beginnings, big dreams, and all the magic that comes with growing up.