The Leaving Starts Before the Leaving Starts

On grief, flank steak, Swedish Death Cleaning, and making room for what’s next.

I made my favorite meal last night before I left on my trip. Earlier this week, I made Cora’s favorite muffins.

On the surface, that probably looks completely normal. But there’s a whole other conversation happening inside my head.

My room is a mess. My closet is out of control. The storage unit is packed with things I haven’t looked at in years. And lately I’ve found myself thinking about who would have to sort through all of it someday.

John thinks about it too.

He bought me a Swedish Death Cleaning book for Christmas. Not because he thinks I’m dying. Mostly because he’s seen the closet. And the storage unit.

I think I’ll get to it before anything happens to me. I’m getting very close to the rage purge stage.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about death more.

I don’t know if it’s turning 55 and becoming more aware of the pressure of what I want to do with the rest of my life. Or my mobility. Or the sheer willingness to get on a plane to far-off places that seems to be slipping away.

Or maybe it’s thoughts like this:

I want to make this meal one more time and tell her it was my favorite from childhood because she’ll soon be out of the house, out of many of my daily conversations, and I’m already starting to grieve that change. The end of this chapter of her childhood.

I ought to be making her favorite meal more.

Except I already do.

Pesto pasta.

And if we go out, chicken Alfredo.

She makes her own favorite lunch: grilled cheese. She’s perfected it with crunchy cheese bits on the outside and pesto on the inside.

So here I am, grieving what’s coming while trying to stay in the moment. Cringing when I say the wrong thing because I’m struggling to get out of younger-child parenting.

But let’s get back to dinner.

Flank steak. White rice. Peas.

This was the special meal when I was growing up. Sometimes I even asked for it on my birthday.

My Popo made the best version. She would cut little slits into the steak and tuck garlic cloves inside, then marinate it in soy sauce, a little orange juice, and brown sugar. I vaguely remember her showing me once.

Do I wish I’d paid more attention?

Hell yes.

Especially when it comes to her chow mein.

Cora would have loved that chow mein.

I’m sure I could call my cousins and figure out the recipe. But why I never tried harder to get her chow mein pan is something I’ll just have to forgive myself for today.

Maybe all of these thoughts about premature endings and the emptiness that’s coming next started with saying goodbye to Cooper.

Every day there seems to be some small reminder. Eating my apple in peace. Loading the dishwasher alone. Walking through the house without a seventy-pound shadow wanting to be exactly where I am.

Katie has been getting extra table scraps from both John and me. Last night she somehow knew steak was involved and positioned herself accordingly.

I miss Cooper.

And I miss my dad.

A lot.

And maybe, in some strange way, I’m already missing Cora too.

Not because she’s gone.

She’s still here. Still leaving cups around the house and asking what’s for dinner.

But I can feel the leaving starting before the leaving actually starts.

Maybe that’s part of why I made the flank steak.

I wanted to tell her, one more time, that this was my favorite dinner growing up.

I wanted to pass along something small before it became one of those things I wished I had said.

Because lately I’ve been thinking a lot about what gets remembered.

Not the big things.

The ordinary things.

The meals we make over and over. The stories attached to them. The little family details that somehow survive long after we forget everything else.

More and more, as the days seem to be speeding by, I don’t want her to remember only the clashes. The reminders. The conversations where I was trying to manage everything instead of trust what I’d already taught her.

The moments when I was so focused on helping her launch that I forgot she was already more than halfway in the air.

Maybe that’s what I was really making last night.

Not flank steak.

Just one more memory.

At the same time, our family is changing shape.

Not ending. Not disappearing. Just stretching.

Cora is almost eighteen, and I’m still operating from a parenting manual that’s at least two years out of date. Maybe four.

I find myself grieving things that haven’t even happened yet. The trips we didn’t take. The picture books I never made. The things I wanted to teach her. The traditions I thought we’d have more time for.

My closest friends tell me I still have time.

And maybe I do.

But that doesn’t stop the strange feeling that keeps showing up lately. The feeling that a chapter is ending.

One of my Substack friends, The Old Grey Thinker, left a comment recently that I’ve been carrying around ever since.

“You keep your hands busy while your heart does something more complicated.”

I think that’s exactly what’s happening.

On the surface, I’m trying to do all the things: make the favorite meals, build the college application support, and create space for a fun summer even though most of her fun has very little to do with us anymore.

Underneath, my heart is doing something more complicated.

Maybe that’s the work of this season.

Not fixing the complicated feelings. Not rushing through them.

Just letting my heart do what it needs to do while my hands keep building what comes next.

I keep clearing closets and thinking about the storage unit. I keep writing posts, building digital products, and planning trips I haven’t taken yet.

Maybe that’s my way of preparing for the next chapter.

I want longer dinners, slower travel, and more adventures.

More time with the people already in my pocket.

And the people I haven’t met yet.

Maybe that’s the question I’m really asking these days:

What do we carry forward, and what do we finally let go?

If you’re in a season of change too, I’d love to hear what you’re making room for in your next chapter.

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Keep Reading

→ Three Days Left of Junior Year
The moment I realized senior year wasn’t coming someday. It was already here.

→ On Letting Go: The Driving Chapter
The story of Cora’s longest drive yet and what it feels like to watch the umbilical cord stretch a little farther.

→ On Grief
One week after saying goodbye to Cooper, Katie and I were both trying to figure out what normal looked like.

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