Last week, I accompanied my younger daughter, who is about to enter her senior year, on some college tours. Our family had been vacationing on the Cape, and my husband along with our three other kids returned to San Francisco the day after we left for the south. While this may seem trivial, especially for families with older children, it marked the first time my youngest flew without me.

The morning before my departure, I held a mini symposium on traveling with medications for my husband and oldest child. We always have to bring a small supply of specialized medications for my son, two of which are liquid and often scrutinized by TSA. Ironically, these liquids are intended to prevent issues rather than create them.

“They’re likely to take the protein shake. Just explain he needs it to take his meds, and they can open it for testing. Make sure to secure the caps after TSA returns them to avoid leaks. Use a napkin under the spoon while measuring doses on the plane.” The more I elaborated, the more my husband appeared to zone out, a dynamic we’ve become skilled at over the years. However, my oldest listened intently, mirroring my traits, absorbing everything while understanding that I felt compelled to voice my concerns to avert potential disasters.

Surprisingly, the travel went smoothly without my systems in place. Everything went off without a hitch: medications were managed, luggage was accounted for, and everyone made it back home to California safely. This realization made me ponder whether I actually control everything in life — which could lead to a less stressful existence, but might also signify a loss of control.

I’m unsure how to reconcile this balance, but my daughter and I have campuses to explore, and this endeavor requires focused attention.

I have a genuine affection for college campuses. If I were more knowledgeable about a particular subject, I might even consider becoming a professor. I relish the vibrant energy that campuses exude. Walking around feels like a trip through time, as I convince myself I, too, am exploring my options for the next four years, contemplating whether neuroscience might be my path.

I delight in the quirky traditions and unique campus lingo — “This is where all the students congregate. It’s called the pod! The pad! The patch!” Each detail hints at what life would be like within the confines of these acres.

During our first tour, student guides introduced themselves before we split into groups. Each shared a casual overview of their commitments and achievements, which made me realize these twenty-somethings have accomplished more in college than I have in my entire life.

One student rattled off an impressive list of clubs, activities, majors, and minors, suggesting he had somehow found a way to create more hours in a day. Perhaps he was managing to sing acapella while serving as a teaching assistant or conducting research while playing club volleyball.

If students had put in this level of effort when I was in college, they certainly kept it to themselves. I wasn’t uninterested in academics, but I focused strictly on required courses and didn’t engage in extracurricular activities. I can’t recall anyone volunteering on weekends, starting clubs, or assisting professors with research. Maybe one person? (I mention this in hopes that any of my college classmates reading this might agree.) Until graduation, I didn’t think of my peers as fellow learners but rather as companions in our shared experience — inhabitants of the libraries, student sections, and that barely grassy area between academic buildings — the Dustbowl!

I want to believe this reflects a generational shift, an evolution of the collegiate experience. But it could also mean I was just lazy.

Of course, those leading campus tours tend to be the most driven students. My daughter and I joked about the idea of schools offering brief sessions with average or less engaged students (if they still exist) after official tours. Just five-minute speed sessions to gauge the overall vibe and discover where to find the best bagels.

Our second tour was supposed to be self-guided since all slots were filled when I tried to book. However, upon arriving on campus, we noticed several pairs of parents and students heading across the Quad, signaling that the 2 PM tour would start soon in a nearby building. I suggested we ask if we could join — no harm in asking. My daughter found this idea inexplicably embarrassing, so I offered to go in alone to make this “outrageous” request. Unsurprisingly, the response was positive. There was indeed space for us, and we joined the group without issue.

The tour was exceptional, led by two students who shared their experiences so vividly that I felt as if I were a student myself by the end, far surpassing the aimless wandering my daughter and I had planned. She even conceded that, for once, I was right. I hope she remembers this moment and understands the value of asking questions.

After a day filled with tours, we strolled back to the first campus as the sun began to set. I asked my daughter if she could envision herself attending that school. She nodded, prompting me to encourage her to pretend to put on a backpack and walk home from class.

“Oh, yeah. Okay.” She immediately mimicked putting on invisible straps and hopped a bit to settle the imagined weight. Once adjusted, she rested her hands on the nonexistent straps.

A brief memory flashed through my mind — her first day of preschool when she dashed out the front door to the car, excited to begin her educational journey, her silver sequined backpack bouncing behind her. An unsettling thought struck me: I do not want her to go to college; I wish she would stay home and play make-believe with me forever.

But I push through the moment like a devoted mother, refusing to shed tears on a dusky walk through her potential future campus.

“Heyyyyy, C….” I greet her casually, mimicking the relaxed demeanor that young people have in their encounters, as there’s no surprise in this generation — they always know where everyone is.

“Heyyyyy…” she responds, nonchalantly, unsure if I’m a roommate, a hall neighbor, or just someone she met briefly during orientation or at the dining hall.

“Where are you coming from?” I inquire.

“Class…”

We struggle to find more conversation topics, merely recalling we’ve only met once. Yet she breaks character to mention she’s considering using her formal name in college. I try calling her by her birth name.

It feels awkward. While it's a lovely name given to her in honor of her grandmother, it doesn’t seem to fit the moment. It feels less distinctive for introductions — perhaps too common or, more importantly, too different from the nickname I’ve always known her by.

She jokes about using her middle name instead, which is Dare, a family name from my husband’s side, and not a challenge we threw at her at birth.

We meander toward what we hope is the main tower, relying on our notoriously poor sense of direction, and I ponder these names. How would her experience shift based on her name? Would college be different? Would her nickname help her forge more friendships? Would using her formal name land her on more e-boards? What about her middle name — would she drop out?

This is the realm of college tours: all options open, all choices awaiting decisions. Every possible version of her on diverse campuses, shifting perspectives based on choices made. The view remains vibrant, each scenario reflecting unique beauty. Choosing a favorite seems impossible, and labeling one as the best feels wrong.

As autumn approaches, I hope she remembers this as well.

At one school, she dislikes the interiors of all the buildings. It seems like a trivial concern, but she can't envision herself wanting to spend time in any of the libraries or dining halls. I understand her sentiment: the vibes simply aren’t right.

During one of my few college tours, my dad and I quickly realized that a particular school wasn’t for me. Though the concept of “vibes” hadn’t been coined yet, I could tell something felt off. While we stood in front of another uninspired building, listening to… well, I can’t recall, as I had tuned out five minutes into the tour. My dad ducked behind a pole and motioned for me to follow. “Want to get some ice cream?”

I was in, so we left, and two single-scoop cones later, we were already headed home while all those other students continued their trek, listening to… once again, I’m not sure.

My daughter knows this story because it’s one of my Important Stories. We contemplated leaving our current tour for ice cream — it feels like a family tradition! — but we couldn’t convince ourselves that our guide wouldn’t notice. After all, she’s just a high-achieving student doing her best. So we stuck it out until the end, recognizing that learning what you don’t like is just as valuable as discovering what you do.

Every night after our tours, we watched the Olympics in our hotel room, a comforting routine that encapsulates time perfectly.

My daughter struggles to grasp when prime-time viewing in Paris will air each evening since she’s unfamiliar with the concept of prime-time TV. She thinks it might air at 8:30 or 9. I explain it starts at 8 and concludes at 11, where networks showcase their biggest hits. “Maybe I could teach TV classes someday? Call me, colleges!”

Every night, she’s also taken aback when local news airs at 11. I explain that this is another feature of network television. “Why?” she asks. Why what? “Why do all stations air the same content at the same time? Why wouldn’t some show news earlier or later?” It seems she might have stumbled upon the idea of cable television. But she finds the scheduling puzzling and asks why again. When I eventually become a professor of TV, I’ll have to set limits on follow-up questions. I explain that it’s simply a preference of the American audience to receive news at 11 PM, allowing them to go to bed with niche worries like trees potentially falling on their homes or flooding threats. Also, to check if rain is expected the next day.

After the Olympics, we watch Stranger Things, a new experience for me but a familiar one for her. She guides me through the plot points I’ve forgotten, reminding me when to close my eyes. I recall how I couldn’t watch this show during the pandemic; I was overwhelmed by the thought of anything strange.

And soon, it’s time for bed.

“Good luck in your meeting,” I tell her, noticing her business-casual pajamas, those matching sets with button-down tops. I’ve worn old t-shirts to bed since I outgrew my last nightgown at age 10, so I don’t understand dressing up for sleep. But this is her comfort zone, and it’s become our routine.

“Oh yeah, thanks. I’ll need it. Big presentation tonight. A lot at stake.”

Make believe. For forever.

We arrive at our final tour and settle into a brightly lit, overly chilled amphitheater. This school showcases short videos as attendees find their seats. One features last year’s drop-off, with parents and siblings of fresh freshmen in undecorated dorm rooms, sharing their pride and hopes for the upcoming year, reflecting on the adjustment of living apart.

“It’s gonna be hard knowing she’s not just down the hall,” says one younger brother, prompting his mother in the video to tear up, which, in turn, brings tears to my eyes as well.

I appreciate a montage set to uplifting music, but this feels too real. I prefer the fantasy of the tour — a world of possibilities unclouded by reality. My daughter isn’t leaving tomorrow; she doesn’t even know where she’ll go yet! So for now, we sit in our safe bubble, together, exploring options, discussing pros and cons of various majors at one school, the charming downtown of another, and the excitement of multiple Chick-fil-As on campuses.

But I know how this unfolds: all this exploration will lead to her selections, applications, and eventual admissions. Soon, we’ll be the naive parents standing amidst boxes of new extra-long bedding in a dorm room that’s yet to be determined. I’ll feel proud, hopeful, and heartbroken at the thought of her not being just down the hall.

I’ve learned this lesson twice: college drop-off is one of the bittersweet milestones of parenthood.

Upon returning to San Francisco, I receive a text from an unknown number from someone named Elsa. I assume it’s another request for donations to a campaign, but instead, it’s a woman informing me she found my book at her restaurant in Dulles airport.

I check my carry-on and realize she refers to my paper calendar, my sole means of tracking daily responsibilities. I had taken it out while my daughter and I ate, trying to plan her senior fall. In my attempt to slide it back into my bag, I must have missed. Once, I would have thought, I would never do that. Now, I merely think, Yup, that sounds like me.

I text Elsa but receive no response for hours, so I call her.

“Miss Jen…” she answers.

She apologizes for the delay in her reply, explaining she’s working a shift. She also expresses regret for having to go through my calendar to find my number. I imagine all the forms tucked inside the front flap. Elsa now knows my son’s bilirubin is high and that my contested parking tickets were denied.

She worries there’s a school form for my other son that’s past the submission deadline and, as a fellow mother, understands the urgency of getting my calendar back. She promises to send it overnight on Monday.

I offer to Venmo her for postage plus a small fee for her help.

“I’m 67. I don’t have that,” she replies.

I suggest sending her a check instead.

“Oh, Miss Jen. It’s not necessary. I believe God will reward me in time.”

It’s easy to forget that people can be this kind. The world often feels as though everyone is out to get you. Yet, time and again, people have your back.

I tell Elsa that I think God and I can at least split the costs and ask her to include her address in the envelope.

By Tuesday, my calendar arrives, bringing time back into my grasp. I check the envelope, half-expecting a little girl inside inviting me and a group of American Girls to a tea party. As if time could ever be returned.

Though I can’t predict the coming weeks and months, I can see what’s on the horizon. I glance at the squares for August and notice my daughter’s first day of school is just a week away — the starting line of her senior year.

I know how swiftly these pages will turn. It’ll be a breathless race. I’ve experienced this before.

But for today, she is just down the hall.