They’ve always been two wings of the same bird, balancing each other, lifting each other, and inseparable in so many ways. But now, one prepares to stretch farther from the nest while the other stays near, and I’m left feeling something every parent eventually must: both pride and ache.
Ava and Zoe: twins by birth, miracles by survival.
Born three months early, weighing barely enough to be called babies, they arrived into this world in a flurry of fear, tubes, beeping monitors, and whispered prayers. For weeks and months, we lived minute to minute watching their tiny chests rise and fall in NICU incubators, quietly willing the universe to give us just one more ounce, one more stable breath, simply, one more day.
Their names were desperately intentional.
Ava, meaning life, or bird, was always destined to fly. And now she is. In just a few short weeks, she’ll be moving into a college dorm more than two hours away, living on her own for the first time. The excitement in her voice is palatable. The independence in her eyes is unmistakable. And even though every part of me cheers her on, another part quietly wonders how I’ll adjust to not hearing her high-pitched laugh from the next room, or passing her in the kitchen on a random Tuesday night.
Zoe, also meaning life, carries her own quiet kid of strength. She’s staying close to home, attending school locally, and continuing to be a grounding force in our house. Her steady presence will cushion the change, even as she begins to carve out her own space and independence, too.
So yes, one daughter is leaving the nest, and one is staying. But they are both, in their own ways, soaring.
And I? I’m just here trying to figure out what to do with this shifting gravity and change – both physical and emotional.
Because no matter how many times I told myself this day would come, that this is what we raised them for, it still catches in my throat. There’s something about this kind of letting go that feels less like a transition and more like a gentle undoing. A dissolving of what was, to make space for what’s next.
I know I’m not the only one feeling this. Plenty of parents have stood in a dorm room doorway, doing their best to hold it together. And any dad who’s watched his daughter grow from the little kid who used to fall asleep on his chest into someone packing her own bags and driving off, they know what this feels like. It’s part of the deal: the pride, the worry, the shift you can’t quite prepare for, all rolled into one.
And still, the truth is this: we’re the lucky ones. Ava and Zoe are here. Alive. Thriving. Beating odds they weren’t supposed to beat. They are living, breathing testaments to grace, grit, and the quiet power of resilience. Watching them continue to grow has been the greatest privilege of my life.
So, I’m learning to sit with both what’s changing and what’s staying the same, holding onto where we’ve been while also being excited to see what’s next.
The house will feel different. Quieter, maybe lonelier at times. But they’ve earned this moment. When they walk out the door, I’ll feel the ache of the quiet they leave behind. I’ll worry, of course. But I’ll also know, deep down, they’re ready. They’ll find their way.
They always have.