How shared custody prepared me for college drop-off

College drop-off for my firstborn, Finn, did not go as anticipated last September. I couldn’t squeeze out a single tear. I tried. I really did.

At first, I thought my lack of emotion was rooted in surprise. I couldn’t believe that Finn and I had already finished moving his belongings into his University of California Santa Cruz dorm in less than half an hour. My motherly role was over too quickly. Finn hugged me and muttered, “Later, bruh.” Then, his curly mop of hair bounced away from me.

I stood there alone amidst the towering redwood trees waiting for the grief to hit. It didn’t.

I remembered that five years of having to say goodbye to Finn and his younger siblings at my ex-husband’s door—courtesy of the divorce from hell—meant that I’d flexed my drop-off muscle many times. It’s been a bulging bicep ever since.

I never imagined when I had children that I’d be sharing custody of them by the time they were twelve, ten and eight years old. Their father and I had always espoused that parents had a responsibility to continually strengthen their relationship for the good of the family. But then, the day before our fifteenth wedding anniversary, he announced to me, “I’m done with the marriage” so casually that I assumed he’d been drinking. As I lay pretzeled on the floor listening to him go on and on about how he should get the dogs and this or that piece of furniture, I knew it was over.

We had yet to tell our children the news when Finn figured it out on his own a few weeks later. He’d been mid-bite of a perfectly browned grilled cheese when his father’s phone chirped on the counter. “Mommy, what’s this?” With a trembling hand, he showed me what was on the screen: a dating notification framed by red pillowy hearts. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek as Finn’s big brown eyes darkened with understanding.

The divorce that followed nearly drowned our family with its stormy progression of house and school moves. Despite how hard I tried to provide structure, the always-changing custody schedule made my children constantly fearful of the next vortex to whirlpool them under.

Finn hadn’t shared much throughout the divorce, so when he wrote about it in his college application four years later, I tried not to crinkle the printout with my shaky grip. “It is what it is,” his personal statement began. It went on to explain how he’d been muttering “it is what it is” as a lifejacket mantra. A few fast tears blurred my vision. Yet, what followed was a proud and declarative statement about thriving at adulting.

Finn had been racking up the valuable currency of real-world skills. He’d had to handle many of the meals at his father’s house, grocery shopping for value-packs of chicken and figuring out how to get the nutrients he needed to endure football practice. He’d coped with his emotions by exercising with “therapeutic intensity” and developing community through his Fortnite video-game obsession.

My mouth guppied open and shut as I looked up from his essay. I told him how proud I was of him. Then, I privately sobbed about the burden of divorce on my children once again.

I’d tried hard not to over-parent because of what my children had been through. This was put to the test again after Finn’s high school graduation. Group chats and internet forums were advising parents to be all-hand-on-deck for their child’s big “launch.” It seemed as if “good” parents shopped for trendy decorations to cozy up the harsh cinder-block walls of their kiddo’s dorm room. And they didn’t just buy mattress toppers for their child’s Twin XL, they started social media threads seeking the best brands, then cross-checked those with environmental toxin reviews. If they were really good parents, they’d set up their child’s new doctor and dentist appointments ahead of time.

My first thought was, I can do those things! I’m an overachiever, too! Then, I remembered Finn’s essay. He already knew how to manage his life. So, while some of my friends were panicking about which mattress topper to buy for their child’s dorm—as if their child’s success depended upon three inches of pillowy plushness—I handed that off to Finn.

In the days leading up to Finn’s drop-off, my friends seemed to expect me to fall apart and binge on pints of Rocky Road while pouring over his baby books. I couldn’t help but think, this is nothing. I’d already watched my marriage fall apart. I’d already endured rotating weekends and summer weeks alone in my empty house, one that could barely hold on to the echoes of my children when they’d been with their father.

The college drop-off day was almost a this-is-nothing moment. I briefly wished that Finn’s father had been there, too, to see how ready Finn was for his launch as an official Slug. But mostly, I’d just wanted to roll my eyes with someone when Finn had called me “bruh” a few minutes earlier. That feeling quickly passed. As I walked through the UCSC nature trails to get back to my car, I ran my hands over sturdy trunks of redwood trees appreciating their company instead.