a true story about daily transitions
The Goodbye She Could Hold Onto
Hand on the door. Coat half on. She wouldn't let go of my sleeve. I tried bright. 'Look how fun!' Then I edged for the door. The faster I moved, the harder she gripped.
the realization
She didn't need me to make the goodbye happy. She needed something true she could hold while it was sad.
A new babysitter is a stranger standing where the most important person in the world is supposed to be. When she grips your sleeve at the door, she isn't being difficult — she's asking the only question that matters to her: are you coming back?
have you ever felt this way too?
Bright voices and quick exits don't answer that question. They dodge it. And toddlers can feel the dodge — which is why the faster we move toward the door, the harder they hold on.
What answered it, in the end, was small and physical: a scarf, folded into her hands. Something that smells like you. Something that stays. A goodbye she could literally hold onto while she learned, minute by minute, that goodbye is not the same as gone.
She still cried. That part matters. The goal was never to skip the sadness — it was to let her be sad with something true in her hands instead of alone with a closed door.
what to say to your child 🧡
"You don't want me to go. That's okay."
"This stays with you. I always come back."
"I'll kiss you once, and then I'll go — and you can hold this until I'm back."
