A Mother’s Rite of Passage: Watching My Son Step Into the Wilderness - and Into Himself

Today, my oldest son embarks on a five-day, solo, winter backcountry hiking and camping trip - an adventure entirely of his own desire, design, and accord.

While many his age might be flying off to tropical beaches or celebrating their accomplishments in other ways, my adventurous, driven, determined young man felt a burning call to do something different. Something older. Something instinctual.

He wanted to go alone.

Into nature.

Into silence.

Into himself.

As he prepares to enter the US Navy in the New Year and move permanently to the United States, he wanted - needed - to mark this moment in his own way. To honour the closing of one chapter and the courageous beginning of another. To test himself, not for me, not for the world, but for his own knowing.

And truthfully, isn’t that what a rite of passage has always been?

The Rite We Don’t Speak About Enough

This coming-of-age instinct - this primal ache to step out on one’s own - is something we don’t honour nearly enough in our youth anymore. We shield them, smother their edges, pad their risks, soften the world around them. We forget that the wild calls to them for a reason.

And as a mother - especially one who has worked and sacrificed so much to protect and raise my two cubs on my own - letting him walk into the winter forest alone comes with a very human, very maternal ping of fear.

For years, I was the one warding off dangers, seen and unseen.

I was the buffer between them and the world.

I was the shield.

But a mother's shield is not meant to be held forever - it exists only until the young warrior can hold one of his own.

And so, this too is a rite of passage, for me.

The Art of Letting Go

At some point, we must stand at the edge of the nest and trust that everything we poured into them - our love, our discipline, our lessons, our gentleness, our firmness, our faith - has created a foundation sturdy enough for them to build a life upon.

Letting go becomes an act of devotion.

Believing becomes an act of love.

Trust becomes the final lesson we give them.

And isn’t that how it should be in all relationships?

Whether held close or loved from a distance?

Faith…without control.

The Unexpected Confirmation from My Youngest

Last night, while driving home from his chosen co-op placement at a Family Psychotherapy Clinic, my younger son turned to me and asked:

“Mom, do you think what you’ve done for Tristan and I since we were kids has gone unnoticed?”

My instinct was to say yes, because truthfully, parenting - especially single parenting - often feels like sacred, invisible work. The kind that leaves you wondering if any of it truly lands.

But he shook his head.

“It doesn’t.”

He went on to tell me how, while away at leadership camp this past summer, the group gathered for a campfire sharing circle, and in the midst of it, he cried - remembering everything I’ve done for him and his brother. Telling his peers how grateful he was. How proud he is to call me his mom.

I don’t think I took a full breath for a few seconds after he said it.

Because this…

This is what every parent hopes for:

Not praise, not perfection -

but being seen.

Children always know.

They feel us more deeply than their words ever reveal.

They carry the imprint of our love long before they can articulate it.

There was no class, no book, no lecture that could have prepared me for solo parenting. But living it - fumbling through it, learning through it, growing through it - became the greatest education of my life.

The Legacy We Live, Not Leave

As I watch my oldest son shoulder his pack and step into the snow-covered wilderness, alone and ready, my heart holds both the ache and the pride.

The gratitude for who he is becoming is immeasurable.

The honour of witnessing his evolution is indescribable.

The blessing of raising two boys into young men - after every obstacle, every storm, every moment we weren’t sure we’d make it - feels sacred.

This is the living legacy we speak about so often.

Not the material things.

Not the achievements.

But these moments -

When you see them embody everything you’ve poured into them.

When you watch them rise.

When you realize they are who they are because of everything you walked through together.

These are the moments we can feel proud.

Proud of them, for stepping into themselves.

And proud of ourselves, for loving them imperfectly but wholeheartedly.

And grateful to our children - for allowing us the grace to grow, to learn, and to become

alongside them.