Trusting the process

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As this year begins, I’m reminded that my role as a parent isn’t to live in fear of tomorrow or to dictate the path my son, The Boy, should take. Instead, it’s to offer support when needed, guidance when there are too many options, and to share my successes and failures, including moments where I wish I had made different decisions and could now say, “Learn from this one.”

Unlike me, The Boy has always been fearless, taking on nearly every challenge with the attitude of, “You never know, I might win.” I’ll never forget the first time his coaches approached me for permission to have him wrestle someone who weighed nearly 80 pounds more than he did. Outwardly, I smiled and said, “Whatever he wants to do!” Internally, I was screaming, “He’s going to crush my baby,” both literally and figuratively.

To my complete shock, The Boy held his own and came out on top against a heavier, more experienced wrestler, proving once again that sometimes the scariest leaps are the ones our kids were already ready to take.

That same fearlessness has followed The Boy into this next season of life, one that involves big decisions, long conversations, and an overwhelming number of college options. While he approaches the process with optimism and a quiet confidence, I approach it with a deep breath, a notebook, and a growing awareness that my job isn’t to narrow the list for him, but to help him learn how to narrow it himself.

We have two very different approaches to narrowing down his choices. The Boy has a pile of acceptance letters casually living on top of the PS5, while I’ve turned the process into a spreadsheet masterpiece so I can see what we’re working with.

“Is there any kind of order to this pile?”

“Nah. I think I’m going to apply to one more.”

“One more? You’re still interested in all of these schools?”

“I mean… not really.”

deep breath

“Okay, okay. So can we eliminate some?”

“I mean, I guess.”

He waited patiently for me to leave, clearly ready to return to his muted group chat and silently willing me out of his room. Still, progress happened. Slowly. Eventually, I started to notice the acceptance pile was getting smaller, so I quietly celebrated by deleting a few rows from my spreadsheet.

Now, I’m not I’m bragging, but this spreadsheet is a work of art!

Before we could even think about narrowing down The Boy’s college choices, I had to get organized and see the full picture in one place. So naturally, I created a spreadsheet, not just any spreadsheet, this one was built over four years from suggestions from podcasts, webinars, financial presentations, and even a few late nights scrolling through parent forums. Every row, column, and color-coded cell became a mini roadmap, helping us

weigh academics, campus life, career opportunities, and cost, guiding us toward a college where The Boy could truly thrive.

I knew it wouldn’t be too long before The Boy leaned over my shoulder, eyebrows raised, and said:

“I know you have one. Don’t you?

“Have what?” I was absolutely confused.

Playfully annoyed. “Dukes, where is your little spreadsheet. The one where you’ve been tracking all my college options. I bet you have my future color-coded.”

“Whoa, whoa! You don’t know me. “Right! Hand it over, Lady.”

“I’ll just share it with you!”

At the end of the day, my gorgeous spreadsheet, the pile of acceptance letters, and color-coded chaos aren’t really about control; they’re my quiet way of supporting The Boy, even though the occasional eye-roll or sigh of annoyance. Watching him navigate this process with his fearlessness has reminded me that my role isn’t to have all of the answers. It’s to provide him with unsolicited guidance and share what I’ve learned, even what I wish I’d learned sooner, and be there in the background, cheering him on as he figures out his own path.

Of course, we’re STILL waiting on the final application before he makes his decision, which means my spreadsheet isn’t going anywhere, at least not just yet, and neither is my not-so-silent coaching from the stands, quietly rooting for every row, column, and color-coded maneuver he makes as he grapples with the biggest match of all: choosing the college where he’ll thrive.