May All Your Transitions Be Joyful

Growing up, little losses and ways to honour it all

[For my paid members, we’re halfway between celebrations on the Celtic wheel of the year, spring equinox and Bealtaine. You can scroll to the end for info on our next circle on 29 April and some reminders of what we explored in our last circle. This post is one of my regular posts for paid subscribers - I’ve added the paywall to this post where things start feeling a bit more personal. If you’d like to join my paid membership and be part of regular online circles, you can find out more here. Lastly, the title of this post comes from Bridget Christie’s channel 4 comedy The Change - highly recommended for perimenopausal women or anyone who loves a good folk ritual!]

When my daughter first tried on her school uniform at the age of four, I felt sobs rise up in my throat as she twirled in her oversized grey pinafore. I caught my husband’s eye and saw his expression of empathic amusement: “oh, here she goes!” he’d say and pat me on the back as I spluttered something about the pain of time passing, of her growing up and - the ultimate source of our grief as children grow - away from me, just as she should. I could feel my husband get it and not get it, as seems the way with fathers - an understanding in theory, but not the same keenness of grief as the elastic cord stretches between a mother and the body that grew inside them.

My daughter turns ten in two months, and I can’t help but see her in my mind’s eye, standing on the threshold of this next decade, so much change before her. I’d expected her to always be straining at the leash, to be wanting more independence, but right now she stays close. She doesn't want to walk home alone from school, she doesn’t want to walk around the corner alone to her friend’s house. She holds my hand as we walk down the road, but lets go as we approach school. I can feel her apprehension of impending freedom, of the fear of what it might mean to face the world without the safety of responsible adults to make decisions and keep smaller people safe. Sometimes when I lock the door at night, I breathe a sense of relief that they are both here under the same roof, that I can shut the world out, for now.