This week, my neurodivergent son wraps up his first semester at university—a milestone for our family. His transition from high school to independence has been a monumental journey for us both. Over the past four years, I navigated Individualized Education Plans (IEPs), therapy, and his triggers, redefining what stability meant. Letting him go was both terrifying and liberating.

Disappointments arise when expectations go unmet. Instead of claiming “no expectations,” I learned to engage with them, voicing fears like: Will he make friends? Will people understand him? Moving day arrived with excitement clouded by worry, as I confronted what “okay” truly meant: not perfection, but growth through challenges.

The first weeks were disorienting, but I found joy in his absence—no more school emails or absorbing his frustrations. I obsessively checked his location app and clung to mundane conversations to feel connected. When setbacks like meltdowns or missed classes happened, they became opportunities for growth.

Letting go isn’t about abandoning expectations but adjusting them. I’m learning to embrace “paper cut disappointments”—the small stings that teach resilience. Trusting him and celebrating progress outweigh the unmet expectations. Growth, for both of us, is what truly matters.

A Quiet Milestone

This week marks a special milestone—one that might go unnoticed by most people. My son is wrapping up his first semester at university. For me, as the parent of a neurodivergent student, this transition has been monumental. Over the past four intense years—beginning with his diagnosis in Grade 8, just before high school—I immersed myself in navigating Individualized Education Plans (IEPs), therapy sessions, and his triggers. These years were also about redefining our “village” and reimagining stability for our family. Watching him move out and step into independence felt like the ground beneath me was shifting.

The Nature of Disappointment

Disappointments arise when expectations—spoken or unspoken—go unmet. They can shame us, rob us of confidence, and leave us paralyzed by fear. This fear often drives us to claim we have “no expectations.” But in reality, that mindset stunts our ability to reflect, celebrate victories, or grieve losses. Growth requires engaging with expectations, not avoiding them.

The Fear of Letting Go

As we prepared for this new chapter, I was consumed by apprehension. How will he fare without me? Will people “get” him? Who will support him if he has a meltdown? Can he navigate rules and expectations that others find obvious? Will he find friends who understand and accept him? These unspoken questions plagued me, and instead of working through my expectations, I clung to the hope of simply “riding through” this stage and waking up to find things miraculously “normal.” I should have known better about what “normal” means.

Confronting the Reality of Independence

Two weeks before his move, I finally confronted what “letting go” would mean for us. It would mean that if he had a meltdown, if someone rolled their eyes at him, or if a professor misunderstood him, I might never know. Letting go meant trusting him to face the unknown with the tools he’d gained and believing in God’s promise to be with him wherever he went. It also meant trusting myself—that I had done everything I could over the past four years to prepare him.

The Weight of Moving Day

When moving day arrived, we packed the car with everything he might need for dorm life—along with my overwhelming fears. I wanted to hope and be excited, but my fear of disappointment clouded everything. Will he be okay?

But what did “okay” mean? Did it mean waking on time, meeting friends, taking good notes, or remembering exam dates? Did it mean avoiding distress and figuring out new systems flawlessly? Or did it mean simply facing new experiences while using the tools he’d gained? I didn’t know—and no one seemed to offer clarity, aside from hoping students wouldn’t feel homesick.

The Uncertainty of the First Weeks

The first two weeks after he left were disorienting and unnerving. I struggled with setting expectations, fearing that voicing them might “jinx” something or leave me vulnerable to disappointment. At every small sign of trouble, a voice in my head whispered, “See? It’s not going to be smooth sailing.”

Yet, alongside the worry, I experienced unexpected freedom and joy. My mind felt lighter, knowing he wasn’t physically here. I no longer dreaded emails or calls from school reporting his “rough days” or confrontational moments. I no longer had to absorb his frustrations and create a safe space for him to process them. I felt ashamed for feeling this way—relieved by his absence—but I also recognized that this was part of our transition, too: we were both finding, defining, and learning to live in a new “normal.”

Finding Connection in the Mundane

To maintain a connection, I resorted to mundane questions I once dreaded from my own parents: “Did you eat yet? What did you eat? Do you have enough groceries?” When food topics ran dry, I pivoted to clothing: “Did you wear a jacket today? Did you do your laundry?” Looking back, I understand why parents ask these questions—it’s often the only thread connecting us to their new, unfamiliar world!

I also found myself obsessively checking his location on the “Find My” app. On his first day, I saw he was in his dorm that afternoon and assumed he was overwhelmed. But by dinner, when the app showed him at the student center, I felt a wave of relief. Hours later, when he hadn’t returned to his room by 10 PM, my worries surged again. I had to confront my fears and trust that he was navigating his independence.

Paper Cut Disappointments

By the end of orientation week, his sensory system was in full overload. One night, he Facetimed us, tears in his eyes, muscles tensed, voice raised. I could do nothing from 100 kilometers away but sat and listened courageously, reminding myself that these moments were paper cut disappointments—small stings that hurt but wouldn’t destroy us.

The next morning, he overslept and woke just 15 minutes before class... thanks to ME. My instinct screamed to intervene, but I resisted. He faced the consequences himself and moved on. Similarly, when his student card malfunctioned at the bookstore, he reassured me: “I’ll figure it out later, Mom.” These moments, while painful, were opportunities for growth—for both of us. Every intense experience he shared with me was laced with both trepidation and pride.

Growth Through Setbacks

Over time, my son has learned to handle setbacks. Though he’s had his share of meltdowns, he’s also had moments of triumph that prove how mature and capable he is. He’s found solace in a few friends and strength in his faith. I’ve learned to limit my use of the “Find My” app (though I still check occasionally) to no more than three times a day, if any. We shared our expectations and, for us, no matter what other families do, sending a “good morning” text at 8 AM suffices as communication.

The Courage to Let Go

Letting go doesn’t mean having no expectations. It means bravely voicing them, reflecting on their realism, and adjusting as needed. It means celebrating progress, accepting setbacks, and finding strength in the “paper cut disappointments”—those small pains that are manageable, even growth-inducing, rather than catastrophic.

Some expectations remain unmet: he hasn’t sent me his tuition invoice for next semester, applied for therapy reimbursement, or taken photos of his dorm. But I’m learning to sit with this discomfort, knowing that growth—for both of us—is far more important than any checklist. Unmet expectations cannot harm us.

Where We Grow

In the end, letting go isn’t about abandoning hopes and dreams. It’s about courageously trusting and engaging with our expectations, even when they risk disappointment. Paper cuts sting, but they are also where we grow, reflect, and deepen our connection.