I can’t believe my third-oldest child—my oldest daughter—is getting married this month.

When I say I can’t believe it, it isn’t because she isn’t ready. She is more than ready. She is steady and radiant, intelligent and humble, a woman who has turned challenges into triumphs, ashes into beauty.

What I can’t believe is that the little girl with the oversized basketball in her tiny kindergarten hands is about to be a bride. The same child I drove to birthday parties and sleepovers, the one who carried her flute to middle school concerts where I wept at her bravery, who danced in talent shows with her besties—half comedy, half grace—while I smiled until my face hurt and clapped until my hands stung.

I watched her get invited to the varsity basketball summer team even before freshman year. I remember her collapsing on the court, pain echoing from her knee through the gym, shattering me in ways I couldn’t fix. And then, I remember her rising—captain, starter, leader. In her senior year, she helped carry her team further than any Webster Groves girls’ team had been before, losing a game by just six points and coming close to going to  State. She was part of the foundation that paved the way for the program’s future success.

Then came prom. Graduation. The unstoppable train of adulthood was leaving the station while I stood waving from the platform. Four years at Bradley slipped past in a blink, and then the world stood still. COVID stole her senior walk, the ceremony she had earned.

But the following year, when I finally watched her cross that stage, my heart swelled. Not because of the paper in her hand, but because she had done it alone, in a city far from home. She had proven she could make it.

She returned to St. Louis stronger than before. Two apartments. Rent and utilities in her name. Graduate school and work woven together. She built a life, brick by brick, without my hands guiding hers; just a few phone calls for advice every once in a while. When she earned her master’s degree in school counseling, my pride reached new heights. And watching her step into the lives of middle schoolers—guiding them the way she had once been guided—felt like a circle completed.

Then came the message. A text from her boyfriend asking to meet. He wanted to propose. His respect told me what I already knew: she had chosen well.

And now, the wedding day draws near. Soon, I will place her hand into his, and it will be the most bittersweet moment of my life. Not because of doubt, but because love asks us to release even what we most want to hold on to.

Yet I will carry a lifetime of memories—the first dribble of a basketball, the notes of a flute, the tears on the court, the laughter on stage, the tassel turned at graduation. These are mine to keep. And she will now create her own, with me at the edges, watching, cheering, still part of the story, but in a different way.

Letting go is never easy. But holding on too tight can squeeze the life out of love. However, I’ve learned that love can expand enough to encompass both at the same time.