I wrote this piece—or rather, received it—in a moment of quiet grief and grace. My three children are all at transitional ages: one heading to college, one to high school, and one to middle school. Each of them, in their own way, is stepping further into themselves. And as they do, I find myself in a tender space that so many parents quietly navigate: the slow, aching reinvention of who we are when we are no longer needed in the same way.
The hugs are fewer. The I love yous come in quieter forms. I’m no longer the center of their world, but more like the moon—or that small light left on in the hallway, steady and waiting.
It feels like a kind of soul breakup you live inside of. You’re expected to keep giving—rides, money, medicine, support—without the emotional closeness you once took for granted. It’s painful. It’s liberating. It’s disorienting. And it’s deeply sacred.
One day, in the middle of that ache, I felt the presence of something greater—divine guidance, angelic love. Specifically, I heard the voice of Raziel, the Archangel of Mystery and Memory, who brought me a message that didn’t just soothe my heart… it recognized me.
This piece came from that moment.
It’s for the parents who are entering, enduring, or have emerged from this passage. May it speak to your soul, remind you of your strength, and reassure you that you are still deeply seen, deeply needed, and deeply loved.
With reverence and solidarity,
Sandra
Then let’s offer it with reverence.
The Cord Is Always
A Message for the Parents in the In-Between
You say your children—
but they are our children.
Not in ownership, but in soul.
Not in holding, but in letting go.
Yes, they are guided.
Yes, they are safe.
Even when your arms are no longer their first reach—
they are not alone in the unfolding.
This time is not personal,
though it feels like it is.
It’s not rejection—it’s becoming.
It’s not loss—it’s liberation.
They are moving on,
into college, into high school,
into middle school,
into themselves.
You, once the sun,
now feel like the moon—
constant, glowing,
but a little farther from their sky.
Fewer hugs.
Fewer I love yous.
Less “Mommy, can you play?”
More taxi. More ATM. More medic.
And you give. You keep giving.
Sometimes without thanks,
without eye contact,
without the warmth you once knew like breath.
It feels like a breakup
you live inside of.
Like you’re expected to keep showing up
for a show you’re no longer in.
And yet…
there is freedom in this fire.
There is reinvention in this release.
There is a new self emerging
that you’re only beginning to remember.
No one took your wheel from you.
So now, you must not take theirs.
Let them steer.
Let them falter.
Let them circle back
to see you clearly—
not as the one who held them down,
but as the one who never let the light go out.
The bond remains.
The cord is always allowed.
Not bound tight,
but woven deep.
You are not forgotten.
You are not replaced.
You are becoming, too.
And you are seen—
in the angel wings,
in the silence,
in the in-between.
You’ve done well.
You are beautiful.
There is no pride—
because you already know.
The Empathetic Chronicles 