The End of a Chapter

And the work that makes the next one possible.

Two weeks ago, I was packing for my final trip to The University of Alabama.

With one graduate and one soon-to-be, this trip carried a different weight. It wasn’t just about the ceremony. It was the sense of finality that came with it. My son was stepping into his next chapter, and at the same time, I was quietly closing the book on this one.

No more parent weekends.

No more surprise Uber Eats charges.
No more wondering where they are or if everything is getting done.
No more texts that start with “MOM,” followed by a long pause before I hear back, “Everything okay?”

The moment itself didn’t announce anything. It showed up as a shift in the rhythm we had been in for years, a slow realization that the structure we had been operating within would no longer be there.

For students, this is the space between what has been defined and what is theirs to build. For parents, it is the moment you watch that space open up and realize your role inside it is changing, too.

This is where their next chapter begins.

We often think of moments like graduation as a finish line. In reality, they function more like a launch point. What follows is shaped less by the milestone itself and more by what has been built leading up to it. A launch requires preparation, direction, and a foundation that can hold steady when the structure that once guided you is no longer there.

There is a line from Reid Hoffman that has always stayed with me: “An entrepreneur is someone who jumps off a cliff and builds a plane on the way down.” It resonates here because what looks like confidence or clarity from the outside is often the result of steady preparation meeting real-time action. Small decisions, consistent effort, and a willingness to stay engaged begin to take shape in ways that only become visible over time.

I sat in a stadium full of families and watched my son Jack graduate. The pride in that moment is hard to describe. It builds quietly over years and then catches you off guard all at once.

And then I felt it. The same sense I had noticed before I even left for Tuscaloosa.

When they asked alumni to stand, my daughter was on her feet before I had fully processed what was happening. Four years out from her own Bama graduation, beaming at her brother. I looked at her and understood what I had been feeling. For the first time, I could see both of them on the other side of everything we had worked through together. Two kids, different chapters, different timelines, both exactly where they were meant to be.

I found myself thinking they should come back here every few years, not for nostalgia, but to measure how far they have come.

That is what a launch point is for.

Underneath all of it was a steadiness I did not expect to feel. Not because everything was perfectly planned, but because we had done the work together. We worked through resumes before it felt urgent. We talked about LinkedIn before it was required. We practiced outreach, what to say, and how to stay in the conversation even when it felt uncomfortable. By graduation, Jack had already accepted a job offer.

That is what the work looks like when it happens ahead of the moment.

Readiness does not arrive the morning of graduation. It develops gradually in how students use their time when no one is assigning it, in the small decisions that accumulate into direction, and in the willingness to stay in motion before they feel ready.

May carries a lot of endings: graduation, the close of another school year. Students come home, schedules shift, and just like that, the structure they have been operating within disappears.

What replaces it is open time.

For some students, there is already a plan. For others, it is less clear, and that is okay. This is still an opportunity, not a problem.

Because without structure, even capable and motivated people drift. Not from a lack of ambition, but because open space without a framework can feel disorienting after years inside a system with a syllabus.

This moment is about helping your student move through that transition with intention. Not by filling every moment, but by staying gently in motion, even when things feel open-ended.

While it may feel like you’re closing the book, you’re not at the end of the story. As parents, the book we’ve been writing for the past twenty-two years may be complete.

But what comes next is even better. The sequel.