Several years ago, it was en vogue to choose a word for the year. Many people chose words like courage, faith, or persistence, to name a few. I can’t tell you how many workshops I attended where this exercise served as the icebreaker. It grew old really fast, and I almost chose “annoyed” or “unoriginal” as my word. I didn’t, but I wanted to.

Which is why the premise of this blog bothers me.

This post, and my past year, can be summarized by one word: transitions.

Everyone around me seems to be moving into a new phase of life, while I’m just over here doing my thing.

My wife decided to hang up her recess whistle after 30 years in education. We threw her a retirement celebration at the 1111 KC Hall on Spanish Street, a place that has served as the backdrop for many family memories. We had tacos and toasted with cervezas on a beautiful June evening. We also received both a profuse and profane amount of sour cream, which sparked a surprising amount of conversation.

But most of the evening centered on the many memories she made during her career in education. I’m so proud of my wife for helping so many kids over the years, all while raising her own children, plus one husband. She is a remarkable woman.

The evening was missing one key person, though, as my eldest daughter was studying overseas. The girl who was once scared to go to Kindergarten skipped out of our car, into the international terminal, and onto a plane bound for Scotland. She flew to Canada, endured an eight-plus-hour layover (during which she was apparently adopted by a Canadian family), caught a plane to Edinburgh, hopped on a train to St. Andrews, and took several buses to campus.

That is a lot of transitions.

She greatly enjoyed the trip, and I know this because she said, “Man, I don’t want to ever come home,” during each FaceTime call. I’m told she actually took a class while she was there, but judging from the texts I received, that course should have been called Cultural Immersion in Scottish Pub Culture: An Exploration. I think she earned an A.

A friend met her in Scotland, and the two of them spent a few days exploring London and Paris. Eventually, she landed back in St. Louis—tired, broke, and happy. She hugged us, looked us in the eye, and said, “Can we go to Chick-fil-A?”

She is currently back at school, finishing her last semester before graduating in December.

Last year, we celebrated her younger sister’s senior year of high school as she transitioned to college. She was a golfer, and I made an intentional effort to attend most of her tournaments that year. There were a lot of nights when we would ride home together from an out-of-town tournament. Sometimes we talked about golf. Mostly, we talked about life and listened to music.

Eventually, the District tournament arrived, and my wife and I drove to watch her for possibly the last time.

There’s a lot of pressure on all the players, especially the seniors, and it can be pretty anxiety-producing for the parents, too. Luckily, our daughter handled the pressure much better than we did.

She set a personal record that day. She hammered drives, chipped within feet of the hole, and sank putts. When the dust settled, she ran up to us and jumped into our arms. For a brief moment, it was as if time stood still, and the past six years of golf lessons, tournaments, range sessions, frustration, achievements, and setbacks all coalesced into one moment.

It was pure joy for all of us.

Unfortunately, it would also be the last time we would see her play competitive golf, as she narrowly missed the cut for state. But we didn’t care. We had just watched her play to her full potential in a pressure-packed moment. She was amazing. How do you celebrate such a rare moment of surrealism and sublimity?

With ice cream and ButterBurgers at Culver’s, of course.

A few months later, we moved her into a college dorm room. After several hours of assembling some of the worst-designed Amazon dorm furniture known to mankind, we got into our car and drove home to an empty house.

It’s weird, but my wife and I are adjusting, and the dog seems to be enjoying the only-child treatment.

It’s an adjustment, but I’ve enjoyed every phase of parenthood, and we’re enjoying this phase, too. In a way, it’s as if, after 22-plus years of late nights, packing lunches, laying out clothes, brushing and untangling hair, running kids to practices, school, and playdates, helping with homework, and asking, telling, commanding, and ultimately pleading with them to do their chores, it has all come to a crashing halt.

And my wife and I are right back where we started.

We’re dating all over again.

Most nights, we eat dinner and then walk the dog together. We’ve drawn the line at sharing meals when we go out. I mean, it’s practical, but we’re not that old yet.

I’m well aware that parenthood never ends, and I’m thankful for that, too. I don’t want it to. I value the relationship I have with my daughters and know it will continue to evolve as we transition into this next phase of life.

What doesn’t change is the love you have for one another.

Love.

That could be a good word to adopt for…

Oh, never mind.

Been there, done that.