Letting Go
Yesterday, we took Phen to Steamboat Mountain School. We moved him in, joined the family orientation activities, and navigated pushing our very reluctant and fearful 14-year-old into a new world. He was scared, overwhelmed, and homesick before he even unpacked. Which meant that none of us—myself, Steve, or Hawkins—could fall apart. We had to be steady, even while our own hearts were breaking.
The Silver Lining
The weekend leading up was sweet. We drove up Saturday in our new (to us) truck, stopped for supplies and donuts, and talked most of the way. There were quiet tears on my part, but also laughter and good family time. We stayed downtown, walked around, and even enjoyed a rooftop dinner together. By Sunday morning, I found myself falling in love with Steamboat—the little breakfast joints, the walkable streets, the sense of possibility in the air.
The Reality in Real Time
Then came move-in. Meeting his roommate, dorm mom, teachers, and other families. Watching him swing between tears, resistance, and brave little steps toward engagement. As parents, we kept walking the tightrope: holding him close and then nudging him forward. By the end, the hardest part was the goodbye—leaving him crying on the steps, asking him to take deep breaths, to step inside, to say yes to this new life.
I won’t pretend it wasn’t gut-wrenching. I want more for my child, and here in Silverton, more isn’t always possible. We’ve long accepted the trade-offs of small-town life—distance from doctors, groceries, conveniences—but this is different. This one stings. Because I know he’ll find challenge, opportunity, and inspiration at SMS that simply don’t exist here.
Our Hope + Trade-off
What we’re giving him is the chance to be stretched, to learn alongside passionate teachers and peers who will call him up and out. To experience a wider world while still held in a safe community. To become.
And what I’m learning is that life at 9,318 feet is full of trade-offs. We’ve built a life we love in these mountains, but sometimes loving here means letting go—trusting that the wings our children grow will carry them beyond our valley. This, too, is part of the story of living here.
