The Season of Beginnings

In fifteen weeks, I will finish my degree.

Some days that feels exciting.

Other days it feels terrifying.

For years the finish line seemed so far away that I rarely stopped to think about what might come after it.

Now suddenly, I can see it.

And beyond it?

A question mark.

Not an empty question mark, but one filled with possibility, uncertainty, excitement, hope, and just a little fear.

Although "a little fear" may be the understatement of the year.

Truth be told, I alternate between feeling incredibly excited and wondering what on earth I'm going to do when I am let loose in the real world.

The truth is, I have become quite comfortable being a student.

I know what is expected of me here.

I know the rhythm.

I know the next step.

What comes after that is far less certain.

Perhaps what makes this transition feel so significant is that studying has been part of my life for so long.

My life has been measured in semesters, assessments, exams, clinic hours, deadlines, and more late nights than I care to remember, squeezing study into the spaces between work, family life, and everything else that needed me.

I realised recently that I have been studying for more than half of my sons' lives.

My kids, have really only ever known me as someone who is studying, learning, growing, and working towards the next goal.

Even my husband has only ever known a version of me that was working towards something. 

When I think about it, that feels extraordinary.

For so long, being a student has not just been something I do. It has been part of who I am.

Being a student has become one of the constants of our family life.

For so long, the question has been, "What's due next?"

Soon, the question will become, "What comes next?"

And while that feels exciting, it also feels strangely unfamiliar.

Not because I am leaving something behind.

But because I am stepping into something I have worked towards for a very long time.

As I look around, I realise I am not the only one standing in the space between what was and what will be.

My son is standing in his own question mark.

Having recently completed his apprenticeship, he now finds himself in that strange season of waiting that sometimes follows a significant achievement. One chapter has ended, but the next has not quite begun.

It is an uncomfortable place to be, that space between what was and what will be.

I find myself wanting to reassure him that the waiting will not last forever. That another opportunity will come. That one day this season will make sense.

Then I realise I am trying to tell myself the very same thing.

A dear friend of mine is also standing at the edge of a new season.

Next week she will graduate, marking the completion of years of dedication, sacrifice, and perseverance. Yet alongside that achievement, she finds herself navigating significant changes and learning how to imagine a future that looks different from the one she once expected.

It strikes me that life often works this way.

Just as we find our footing in one chapter, another begins to unfold.

And then there is my baby boy.

Next week he turns twenty-one.

Twenty-one.

I am not entirely sure how that happened.

One moment I was reading bedtime stories, packing lunchboxes, helping with homework, and cheering from the sidelines of childhood.

The next, I am looking at a grown man.

A young man standing at the beginning of his own life.

How can someone be both your baby and an adult at the same time?

And yet somehow they are.

Perhaps every parent understands this strange contradiction.

We spend years teaching our children to grow, and then find ourselves wondering where the years went.

The more I think about it, the more I realise that beginnings are not reserved for the young.

We often imagine that life's biggest beginnings happen in our twenties.

Leaving school.

Starting careers.

Falling in love.

Building families.

But life keeps asking us to begin again.

At twenty-one.

At thirty-three.

At fifty-one.

At sixty.

At eighty.

Again and again.

A new career.

A new season.

A new relationship.

A new identity.

A new understanding of ourselves.

Sometimes we choose these beginnings.

Sometimes they arrive uninvited.

Most often, they arrive carrying equal measures of hope and uncertainty.

Because every beginning asks us to leave something behind.

A familiar routine.

A comfortable identity.

A chapter that has shaped us.

Perhaps that is why beginnings can feel so complicated.

They ask us to celebrate what is ahead while quietly grieving what is ending.

They ask us to trust a path we cannot yet see.

As I stand here, fifteen weeks away from completing my degree, I cannot tell you exactly what comes next.

My son cannot yet see where his next opportunity will come from.

My friend is still discovering who she will be in this next chapter of her life.

My youngest son is stepping fully into adulthood.

And I am preparing to step into a role that I have worked towards for years, but have not yet fully inhabited.

Different stories.

Different journeys.

Different beginnings.

Yet all of us are standing before the same invitation.

To trust that an ending is not the end.

To believe that uncertainty is not the enemy.

To have faith that something new is quietly taking shape, even when we cannot yet see it.

Perhaps that is what a beginning really is.

Not a destination.

Not a plan.

Not even a certainty.

Perhaps it is simply the courage to take the next step before the whole path is visible.

And maybe, just maybe, that is enough.