Has-Been

Loving your kids more than your comfort... and what do when they leave.

Saturday I Realized I Was Becoming a Has-Been

At the track meet this past weekend, Mike and I raked the long-jump pit and measured jumps for the girls. It’s a job I’ve done a dozen times. But this time, I struggled to stay engaged. My hands were pulling tape, but my mind was spinning.

For years, I’ve been volunteering at track meets, basketball games, swim meets, youth group fundraisers, and cross-country races. But the season of being an essential part of the home team is fading. First there were four runners. Then three. Then two. This weekend, there was only Elisabeth. Sam was sick. Nate is finished with track. And I was trying to picture myself in my inevitable future, the one that has been haunting me. The one where I am not needed anymore.

Because even though Nate will be home for a couple more years, the twins graduate in a couple months and that’s the end of a big era. I saw the start of it this weekend. The frantic calls for water were gone. So were the last-minute, “Mom, I need you” looks. A whole new crop of athletes (and their parents) were taking our place.

Even as Mike and I raked and measured, it wasn’t really necessary. The parents of the jumpers hovered nearby, watching, waiting. They were learning in real time about that love for your kid that pushes you to get involved, and eventually asks you to pick up the rake.

Because it’s true, being a parent means a dozen new identities you never asked for.

Parenting makes you a member of clubs you never applied for. You don’t fully understand this until you’re in too many GroupMe chats and Remind threads. You are suddenly essential to a community of Uber drivers, equipment luggers, and line judges. You start showing up outside your comfort zone. And—before you can protest that you are not a joiner—suddenly you belong with them.

That kind of usefulness changes you. It pulls you out of yourself. It gives shape to your days. It makes you belong; it makes you feel important.

On Saturday, the tears in my eyes weren’t because of the sand. They were for the painful truth that I thrive in a system of forced participation. And that season is ending.

I’m not naturally good at showing up. I’m cut-out to be observant, analytical, and shy. Community is something I admire from a distance, rather than live inside. If not forced to join, I don’t. Ugh. And who will I become when I’m not forced to join?

To shake myself out of the sadness, I tried two things.

First, I named what was underneath it: fear. I’m terrified of becoming the has-been who can’t let go of the years when I was needed . Maybe that’s part of why joining has always felt awkward to me. Showing-up requires risk. It requires being seen trying. Maybe this is going to be a problem for all of Gen X. We prefer anonymity over enthusiasm. We came of age during The Breakfast Club, which taught us that community is good, as long as it is authentic.

But my own experience has taught me that community is good—even when it’s forced. And it’s worth risking something to belong with a group. Maybe this is what all those hours of volunteering for my kids’ sports taught me—no one knows what they’re doing. Everyone wants to be included. So, start inviting people in and tolerate the awkwardness.

Second, I invited other senior moms over to our house to tackle the to-dos we have for our graduates. Maybe this is how you leave a beloved season. You carry the best parts forward. You intentionally build the next small circle before you need it. You take an unsure step in the direction of including and friendship.

So, we gathered and talked about our kids’ college choices and how they’re doing in their final months at home. I realized, in the middle of our discussion, that our graduates are doing the same thing I’m trying to do. High school has been a long experiment in forced joining. They learned teamwork. They learned to show up for each other. Now they get to choose how they’ll live that out in new communities that they chose.

Hopefully these seniors who we are about to send off have also learned that they need each other. I really hope so. Because belonging and connection are what life is all about.

For me, as I go into this next season, intentional community cannot be optional. Left to my own preferences, I will turn inward. I will fill my days with solo work. I will confuse productivity with connection. I will mistake reflection for relationship. One day I will look up and realize I built a full life with no room for anyone else.

The only path forward is to choose the next uncomfortable place to show up. To become the pit raker again, just in a different field.

Recently, we hosted Bible study with friends who graciously endure imperfect jambalaya for good conversation around our table. We were in Psalm 133:

Behold, how good and pleasant it is
when brothers dwell in unity!
It is like precious oil on the head,
running down on the beard,
on the beard of Aaron,
running down on the collar of his robes!
It is like the dew of Hermon,
which falls on the mountains of Zion!
For there the Lord has commanded the blessing,
life forevermore.

Community flows. It blesses. It gives life in ways we do not manufacture on our own. We are so clearly wired for connection.

This means I get to re-enter community not as someone needed for my kids’ logistics, but as someone offering my own gifts: hospitality, encouragement, writing, prayer.

Maybe this is the deeper work of every life stage: letting go of identities that were built for us and stepping into the next one on purpose.

Community is where I keep discovering my limits. And my need. And God’s grace inside both.

That is not something I want to outgrow.

What about you? Where do you feel essential right now?