Today, my homeschooler gets accepted to university—his preferred program for the fall, engineering at the University of Victoria. That sentence should read like pure celebration. And it is. But the truth? This moment arrived carrying far more than simple joy. What Even Are These Feelings? From a woman who transacts in emotions, who holds other women’s emotions, who speaks on emotional regulation every day—I’m not sure what these feelings even are. Elation. Anticipation. Excitement. Pride. Gratefulness. Sadness that this day has finally arrived. He’s my baby. My youngest. My last. All the feels wrapped up in tears and hugs and the quiet ache of knowing that a long season of life is shifting once more. Sometimes the most honest thing we can say isn’t “I feel happy” or “I feel sad.” Sometimes it’s simply: This is a lot. And I’m letting myself feel all of it. This is the work I do with women every day—helping them listen inward, honour what’s real, and trust their emotional experience rather than trying to tidy it up into something more presentable. Today, I’m practicing what I teach. When a Homeschooler Gets Accepted to University Once upon a time, I saw my son play with Legos for a decade. I watched him tinker with small machines. Build furniture. Try to understand why things weren’t working, then unbuild blenders and computers to figure them out. Then learn how to build a computer himself. I watched him understand the strategy behind chess and play—and win—against others decades older than him. Watched him crack the code behind all sorts of games. And I watched him fall in love with physics. From Usborne books when he was seven, to university-level physics and math classes when he was fifteen. When I asked him if the workload of those classes was just too much—because they really are exceptionally a lot—he acknowledged that yes, they are. But he really loves learning these things. The proof? He’s self-motivated. And he keeps trying to capture my raptured fascination with his stories from math and physics classes. Today, that same child was accepted into engineering at the University of Victoria. And in just a few months, he’ll have a hefty ride to class every day for the next five years—because the university is ten hours away. (And of course, he can’t leave home to do that;) The Long Arc of Homeschool Motherhood If I’m honest, there were moments I could have marked a calendar and begun a private countdown to this season—the season where the last child begins to leave. Culturally, we talk about this as a milestone. The “empty nest.” The transition. Or just a rite of passage. But for me, this isn’t about cultural narratives. This is about the truth that I always wanted to be a mother. Not just a mother, but a present one. An engaged one. A mother who chose to build a life that allowed me to be with my children fully—especially through homeschooling. A mother who wanted to savour the days, even the hard ones. Homeschooling has never been easy. It has been meaningful, beautiful, stretching, exhausting, sacred work. There are days when you question everything: Am I doing enough? Am I missing something important? Perhaps I am failing my kids without realising it? Why does this feel so hard when I care so deeply? If you’ve homeschooled—or even deeply parented—you know this interior dialogue well. When Motherhood Becomes More Than Motherhood In my work with homeschool moms, I see another layer often present beneath the surface. Many women I walk alongside did not experience secure, emotionally safe childhoods. They grew up unsure of whether they were truly seen, heard, understood, or emotionally prioritized. Other people’s emotions took up most of the space in their homes. Their own needs were minimized, dismissed, or simply overlooked. Then they become mothers. And suddenly, motherhood becomes not just a role—but a mission. A redemption story. A chance to finally do it differently. To create the childhood they themselves needed. To pour in everything they never received. That depth of investment can be profoundly beautiful. It can also be incredibly heavy. You carry the invisible weight of wanting to get it right. You want your children to feel safe, known, cherished. And of course, you want to protect them from harm. And you want to give them every opportunity. You want to ensure that your love translates into their lifelong well-being. So when people casually suggest, “You should get a hobby for when your kids leave,” it often misses the point entirely. This was never just a phase of life. This was your life. When Your Homeschooler Gets Accepted to University — and Actually Leaves You hear it all along: They grow up so fast. One day they’ll leave. You nod. You know it intellectually. But then the first one leaves. And it’s not theoretical anymore. Then the second. Then the third. And suddenly you find yourself here, watching your homeschooler get accepted to university and prepare to take his next steps away from home. All those years of homeschooling, of conversations, of car rides, of frustration and laughter and connection and doubt and persistence—they weren’t wasted. They were forming something. All those years of allowing him to follow his curiosity—from Legos to blenders to computers to physics—weren’t indulgent. They were equipping a human being to live his life on purpose. My husband said it beautifully today: Today we celebrate. We celebrate his effort, his capacities, the interests he pursued, the time we gave him to develop them, and the ways we were able to support him to get here. And I would add this: We celebrate with gratitude for the life entrusted to us. For the child we were given. For the journey we were allowed to walk together. Yesterday, We Brought Home a Healthy Baby There is another layer to this story that makes today feel even more sacred. When Zachary was born, he was rushed into the NICU. His colour wasn’t right. Tests were run. We waited, we watched, and we prayed. For several days, uncertainty was ours—until finally the echocardiogram confirmed that nothing was wrong with his heart. Nothing was wrong with his heart. I still hold the weight of that sentence. When he was permitted, my husband held him skin to skin for hours—this tiny, vulnerable, beautiful baby: 22 inches long, 8 pounds 7 ounces of brand-new life. We drove home three days later than expected. But we drove home with our healthy baby. Our fourth child. Our first son. My husband had suggested the name Zachary years before—even before we were engaged. He’d always loved that name. And when we anticipated our fourth child, we hoped we would be able to raise a son. We were given a little boy. And we named him Zachary. “God has remembered.” It feels like yesterday we brought him home. And now—in what feels like the very next day—we are planning to drive him to university. That same child, now standing over six feet tall, solid and capable, preparing to move ten hours away to study engineering. The name we gave him carries weight I couldn’t have fully understood then. The Truth Beneath the Success Story It would be easy to turn this into a polished success narrative: “Look, homeschooling works. Look at the outcome.” But that’s not the real story. The real story is this: We didn’t homeschool perfectly. I doubted myself often. We adjusted constantly and made mistakes. We learned alongside our kids. However, we learned to prioritize connection over performance. Also, we allowed space for interests to emerge rather than forcing rigid paths. We let him play with Legos for a decade—even when well-meaning voices suggested it was time to move on to “more serious” pursuits. And we let him take apart blenders and computers—even when it meant occasionally having broken appliances scattered across the dining room table. We supported him taking university-level courses at fifteen—even when the workload seemed overwhelming—because he loved it. Because he kept coming home eager to share what he’d learned. And somehow, through all of that imperfect, earnest, committed living—we arrived here. Not with children who followed identical paths, but with young adults who know themselves, who can think critically, who are willing to take responsibility for their lives. That matters more to me than any transcript ever could. For the Mom Who Is Still in the Thick of It If you’re reading this while surrounded by math worksheets, sibling tension, unfinished laundry, and self-doubt, I want you to hear this gently: You are not failing because this is hard, and you are not doing it wrong because you feel overwhelmed, and you are not behind because your journey looks different. The work you’re doing is slow, invisible, relational work. It doesn’t produce instant metrics. It shapes hearts, minds, resilience, identity, and belonging—over time. When your child spends hours on something that seems frivolous—Legos, Minecraft, taking things apart—you’re not wasting their education. You may be nurturing the very curiosity that will one day lead them to their calling. When they want to dive deep into subjects that feel advanced or “too much”—and you worry about the workload—trust their intrinsic motivation. If they love it, if they’re self-driven, you’re witnessing passion, not pressure. And one day, often much faster than you expect, you may find yourself watching your homeschooler get accepted to university, looking back in awe at the human beings who emerged from your care. You may feel joy, and grief, and pride. You may feel disoriented. And you may feel everything all at once. That would be normal. Why I Continue This Work This is why I continue to
