The Results of the Meditation with My Daughter

I can’t quite find the right word for what I felt—disappointed? Heartbroken? Neither fits exactly.

For years, I had been holding onto one vision. In it, Layla would complete her first ten-day meditation course—the one I had carefully planned for her—and walk away transformed. She would be ready to step into the world of college life with a calm mind and a strong heart, to cross that invisible bridge into adulthood without her mother hovering nearby, constantly adjusting the sails to keep her ship steady.

I imagined her as grounded, resilient, and self-assured. No more late-night visits to my room at 2 a.m., her eyes swollen from tears over a fight with a boyfriend or a falling-out with a friend. No more running to me for quick fixes to life’s messiness. From across the country in California, I wouldn’t be able to pick up the pieces for her anymore.

For years, I’ve been her safety net. Last summer was proof: I cut my own meditation service short so her birthday trip would go smoothly. My instincts were right—just one night after arriving at the beach, I got a call from the Airbnb host. Because some of the girls weren’t 18, they couldn’t stay without an adult. Without hesitation, I drove five hours to the Outer Banks the next morning—just a day after a ten-hour drive home from Massachusetts. It felt like a rescue mission, the kind a mother doesn’t question, no matter how tired she is.

But those rescues won’t be possible when she’s a thousand miles away. That’s why I wanted her to experience this meditation course—not as a mere practice, but as training for life itself. I wanted her to see that no one can give her true stability but herself.

Then came the course. On the third day, she broke the rules, snuck into my room, and cried. My heart sank. In that moment, I thought, She’s not ready. She can’t handle this. But as I sat with the discomfort, a new understanding emerged: Layla is stronger than I sometimes allow myself to believe—when she chooses to be. The tears, the trembling voice—they weren’t always signs of fragility. Sometimes, they were her way of getting me to step in. She didn’t want to push through because she knew I would give in and give her all excuses to be fragile. 

And I realized: in my love and my desire to protect her, I had sometimes made it too easy for her not to try. My worry had become her cushion.

That’s why, in these final weeks before she leaves for California, I’ve been quietly stepping back. Letting her feel the wind without me adjusting the sails. It feels strange—unnatural, even—not to hover. But it has also given me space to feel my own life taking shape again. Space to imagine to do whatever I want to do without constantly serving Layla. 

I still wish she had completed that ten-day course. I know how profoundly it can shift a person’s life. But I also know that lessons learned too soon can be lost. Sometimes, the seed must wait for its season.

When the time comes, I believe she will take the course on her own—not because I planned it for her, but because she chooses it for herself. And when she does, she will discover the strength I’ve always believed was in her.

And I, somewhere far away, will be smiling—knowing she is flying on her own.