Friday, I attended the high school graduation of my oldest child. It was a crescendo of four years of force on my part. Not forcing her. But forcing myself.
I had to force myself to show up to events when I would rather stay home. Force myself to talk to other parents when I would rather hide in the corner. Force myself to speak with administration. Force myself to apply for scholarships so my daughter could experience opportunities I never imagined for us. Force myself to be humble enough to take jobs I might not have otherwise considered.
All so she could have four worry-free years at a school that was not necessarily built to house families like ours.
And somehow, through all that pushing, all that stretching, she graduated summa cum laude.
Somewhere along the way, she became an articulate young woman with poise, dignity, and confidence. Watching her walk across that stage yesterday felt surreal. Not because I doubted her, but because I know what it cost to get there. Not only financially, but emotionally, mentally, socially.
During the ceremony, I found myself thinking about milestones.
About how the lack of celebratory moments in my own life sometimes left me feeling stuck. Like I had missed important thresholds somehow. Like I hadn’t properly crossed the right bridges to belong in the moment I’m in now. It creates this strange feeling that I am always waiting to become. Waiting for permission to move forward. Waiting for life to officially begin.
I’ve struggled with that for years.
But Friday, watching my daughter cross that stage, something shifted in me too.
It felt like I had accomplished something.
Not in the shiny, résumé-building kind of way. Or the kind the world applauds loudly. In the quiet way a parent looks at their child and realizes: we made it through this season.
The joy set before me was no longer somewhere out in the distance, in the future.
For a moment, it was here.
Right now.
For this moment my joy is full.
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Share it with someone who might need it, too. Whether it’s a quiet encouragement or a new way of seeing things, these reflections are meant to be passed along.
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Martina Griffin is a Catholic convert, writer, wife, and mother of four. She writes about faith, motherhood, beauty, books, and the quiet ache of transformation. A lover of popcorn, deep questions, and old classics, she shares her heart at Big Bowl of Popcorn—one post at a time. Instagram | Facebook | Email Me |
From Big Bowl of Popcorn
Finding Alberta
A novel about love, grief, and what is remembered and misunderstood.
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