What they wanted to say
Give a milestone the space it deserves.
Daniel is moving away for his first engineering job. His parent wants to recognize his persistence, recall shared memories, and offer encouragement without pressure to report in or prove himself.
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A personal letter to my adult son Daniel, who is moving from our hometown to Denver next month for his first full-time job as a civil engineer. He spent two years at community college, transferred, worked weekends at a hardware store, and completed his degree last spring. His first internship application was rejected; he kept applying and found a placement the following summer. He asked for help with calculus rather than giving up. As a child he built cardboard bridges on our kitchen floor and tested them with toy cars. On a rainy camping trip when he was twelve, we played cards in the tent and he made up ridiculous names for every hand. He still makes people laugh when plans fall apart. This summer he helped his grandmother set up her new phone and wrote down the steps so she could do it herself. He also spent a Saturday helping his friend Ben move. I'm proud of that patience and reliability as much as the degree. I used to jump in too quickly with advice. Last winter, when he was weighing job offers, I managed to listen and he chose for himself. I want to acknowledge that I'm learning to give him space. I'm excited for him and will miss our Saturday breakfasts at the diner, particularly his habit of stealing the last piece of my toast. I want him to know he can call about an ordinary day, a difficult day, or nothing in particular, without feeling obliged to report in. It is fine to need time to settle in and find friends; he doesn't have to make the move look effortless. I hope he leaves room for hiking, cooking, and people outside work. The blue mixing bowl he learned to make pancakes in is packed with his kitchen things. I will visit when he is ready, rather than invite myself. No promises about career success or pressure to make us proud. End with affection and confidence in his ability to make his own life. This is from his parent; don't invent a parent's name, gender, other family members, or experiences. A personal letter to keep.
Written by MyScribe
Heartfelt · 696 wordsDear Daniel, Next month you move to Denver for your first full-time job as a civil engineer, and I want you to know how proud I am of the steady, kind person you've become, as much as of the degree itself.
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Dear Daniel,
Next month you move to Denver for your first full-time job as a civil engineer, and I want you to know how proud I am of the steady, kind person you've become, as much as of the degree itself.
I could list the things you've accomplished, and they are impressive. You spent two years at community college, transferred, worked weekends at the hardware store, and finished your degree last spring. But what I think about most is how you did it. When your first internship application was rejected, you kept applying, and the following summer you found a placement. When you needed help with calculus, you asked for it rather than giving up. Asking for help is a skill, and it will serve you well in Denver and well beyond it.
I see the beginnings of all this in the boy who built cardboard bridges on our kitchen floor and tested them with toy cars. Now you're going to build real things for a living, and it feels right that you found your way there from that floor.
I also remember the rainy camping trip when you were twelve. We played cards in the tent, and you made up ridiculous names for every hand. You still do that sort of thing. When plans fall apart, you make people laugh. Please keep that, wherever you are.
I'm proud of far more than the degree. This summer you helped your grandmother set up her new phone, and you wrote down the steps so she could do it herself. You didn't just fix it for her; you left her more capable than you found her. You also spent a Saturday helping your friend Ben move. That patience and reliability matter to me as much as the degree does. They tell me who you are when nobody is keeping score.
I also want to say something about myself. I used to jump in too quickly with advice. Last winter, when you were weighing job offers, I managed to listen, and you chose for yourself. I'm still learning to give you that space. I'm excited for you, and I trust the way you make decisions.
I will miss our Saturday breakfasts at the diner. I'll even miss your habit of stealing the last piece of my toast. I suspect I'll look at my plate some mornings and notice how long that last piece stays there.
I want you to know a few things as you go. You can call me about an ordinary day, a difficult day, or nothing in particular. You never need a reason, and you don't have to feel obliged to report in. If a week goes by and you're busy, that's fine. When you do want to talk, I'll be glad to hear from you.
It's also fine to need time to settle in. Finding your way in a new city and meeting people take time, and you don't have to make it look effortless. If the first weeks feel lonely or awkward, that doesn't mean you've made a mistake. It means you've moved somewhere new.
I hope you leave room in your life for more than work. I hope there's hiking, and cooking, and people who have nothing to do with your job. A good career is a fine thing, but I'd like you to have a full life around it, with time outdoors, good food, and friends.
On that note, the blue mixing bowl you learned to make pancakes in is packed with your kitchen things. I hope it sees plenty of use in your new kitchen.
As for visiting, I will come when you're ready for me, and I won't invite myself. Your new home is yours to set up and share in your own time.
There's nothing you have to prove to me. You don't owe me a particular kind of success, and you don't have to carry anyone's expectations along with your boxes. The rest is yours to figure out, and I believe you can.
Thank you for being the person you are. I love you, and I'm excited to watch you make your own life.
With all my love,