My son will be 21 years old in a couple of days. He’s headed into his senior year of college at the end of this month, and it’s so hard to believe because wasn’t I just reading him bedtime stories and taking him to kindergarten yesterday?

Talking with him now and hearing the excitement in his voice as he describes the upcoming school year really brings me back to his elementary days when we’d go school supply shopping. Picking out his notebooks and pencils, he’d carefully choose colors (usually green) and put them in the buggy with an excited grin.

From the time he was a little kid, he loved having notebooks to write in. His toddler scribbles turned into letters and words in almost no time. He was quick to read aloud what he wrote, sharing his stories and thoughts with me. This was true even of those scribbles at three years old, when he’d tell me the wonderfully magic story he wrote in just a few lines.

In sixth grade, he began writing a novel in one of those notebooks. He carefully planned out each chapter, coming to me to share his newest part of the adventure. We’d discuss what could happen next, and we talked about maybe writing a book together someday, since we both loved to write.

This writing and sharing continued all through his school career, so when he went to college with the idea of majoring in creative writing, I wasn’t surprised. He said he didn’t want to be a teacher, and I wasn’t surprised at that either, since he’d watched me work so hard as an educator his entire life. But what in the world would he do with a creative writing degree?

He had dreams of writing stories for video games, and to be honest, I was worried. Most 5th and 6th grade boys I taught had that same dream, and from what I understood, the market was flooded with young people pursuing that very same goal. What if he couldn’t get a job?

I’m ashamed now to say that when he came home at the end of his freshman year, I talked with him about other career ideas. “You’ve always loved science. What about a job in that field?” I questioned, as I pulled up websites that showcased all the high-paying scientific professions available. Over time, he agreed, and when he returned back to school, he changed his major to biology.

He seemed excited and worked hard, but I had this sneaking suspicion that his heart wasn’t really in it, and my heart was heavy because I knew that I’d influenced that decision… the decision to pursue another goal instead of following his dreams.

When did I get so beaten down by life that I would be that quick to push being “practical” over being fulfilled? I’d toiled away in education for twenty years at that point, and I felt like that was it for me. As much as I loved my students, it was a difficult job. But it was a steady paycheck and job security. What was wrong with wanting those very same things for my son?

He went on to study his science classes for two years, but I could tell that the spark was gone. That spark used to shine in him everytime he’d read aloud something he’d written or told me about a new story idea. So, last spring we sat down and had another talk.

My son is now going into his senior year as a creative writing student, and I am incredibly proud of him. He’s following his heart, and he’s an inspiration. That spark is back along with the excitement in his voice when he tells me about his upcoming classes.

And now I’m no longer working in education, but writing full-time. His consistent belief in himself and his writing inspired me to go after my own dreams, no matter how scary.

I’m sharing this story today to say this:

As adults, we’ve seen hard times and had struggles, and we want to save our children from going through the same things. However, I’ve learned that we have to let them have their own struggles. We have to let them make their own decisions about the goals and jobs they want to go after in life.

We’ve given them a foundation. Now it’s time to let them fly.

And who knows? Maybe they have something to teach us about flying as well.