The Quiet That Hits After Goodbye: Dropping My Child Off at Summer Camp

Reflections on dropping off my daughter at camp, and the ache of growing up.

Last night, we had dinner at her grandpa’s house, a casual little send-off before her first stay-away camp. Nothing extravagant. Just family, love, and the unspoken weight of change. She was glowing, excited. I was composed, hovering somewhere between denial and countdown mode.

Before we got home, I stopped to fill the gas tank in preparation for the next morning, and something in me went still. I wasn’t panicking, but I was quiet, zombie-quiet. It was as if I were watching myself from the outside. The awareness that something significant was happening, something final, in a small yet lasting way, began to creep in.

Kids playing outdoors at summer camp, enjoying a sunny day filled with games and laughter.

Back at home, we curled up on the couch to watch TV together. Just the two of us. Like always. Her body is tucked beside mine. There was no big conversation, just comfort. We both knew it was the last moment before something would shift.

This morning, I let her sleep in a little. I needed the alone time: just me, my coffee, and the creeping ache of what was coming.

That’s when it hit me, the absence before she was even gone.

Every morning, she asks, “Do you want me to make you another coffee?” It’s the smallest thing, but it’s our thing. She uses my Nespresso machine like a pro, playing the part of a little barista for her mom. And today, for the next 12 days, that question wouldn’t come.

And that quiet, that silence, was louder than anything.

She was okay at first. She’s nine, almost ten, old enough to be excited, young enough to still need you close. She was strong, upbeat… until the moment came to say goodbye. That’s when the tears came. She cried. And I held back mine until after she was gone.

On the drive home, I cried quietly while my husband sat beside me. No words. What is there to say in those moments? The car felt heavier. The road is longer. The silence is more profound.

This is her first time away from home. Her first taste of true independence. And while I want her to have this, and I know she needs this, I won’t lie, it hurts.

I packed nothing alone. She and her dad worked through the camp list with such teamwork and pride. She was so involved, checking off items, folding things, and making sure she had her flashlight and bug spray. She was ready.

And I hope…

I hope she learns new things. I hope she makes new friends. I hope she comes home a little stronger, a little braver, and with stories that light up her face.I also hope, deep down, that she feels gratitude. She recognizes that these opportunities, camps, adventures, and freedom are gifts. 

Ones I didn’t have at her age.

Ones her dad did.

And that she’ll learn to earn things, not just be given them.

And me?

I’ve learned something too. That I love her even more than I like to admit, even to myself. That motherhood is this constant paradox of holding close and letting go, over and over, a thousand tiny times. That sometimes, strength looks like closing the door to her bedroom, because every time I pass by it, I hear the ghost of her voice. And I miss it too much.

Before she left, she looked at me and said, “I love you, Mommy, and I’m going to miss you so much.”

If I could tell her something right now, I’d say, I know how brave you are, my girl. I know this experience will give you new tools, new confidence, and a new sparkle. I hope you know how amazing you are, and how deeply you rock this life, just by being you.

The house feels quieter. There’s more time in my day, technically, but also more space I don’t quite know what to do with.

I worked this morning. Answered emails. Cleaned. Watched TV. I still haven’t eaten, and I'm not hungry . The ache takes up space where food usually goes. That’s just how grief works sometimes, even the soft kind.

I know she’ll be okay. 

I know that. 

And maybe I will be too.

But this week, I’m giving myself space to miss her, without shame. To love her loudly, even from far away.

And maybe next week, I’ll post an update, one week in, one week down. I’ll let you know how I’m doing… and maybe how much I’ve grown right alongside her.

To every mom navigating a moment of separation, whether it’s summer camp, daycare, university, or just a milestone that snuck up and took your breath away, I see you.

We are loving hard, letting go gently, and becoming something new, even in the quiet.

-Fabi