Help others whenever you can. But don’t help others with homework because they might score better than you. Don’t go to the bathroom until you finish your current task. Three of the good, bad, and downright weird lessons my parents taught me as a kid.

I’m now thirty-two, and my parents have once again, taught me another lesson; two of them, actually. Both, are about the idea of choice. Or rather, the illusion of having no choice.

They didn’t intend to teach me these lessons. They didn’t intend to teach me anything—they knew their parenting time with me was over. If anything, I became the parent once I turned thirty-two, when I packed my bags and moved almost a thousand miles, back into their house, to be their caregiver.

I think it’s one of every parent’s most dreaded moments—the first time their children start to push them away. From the moment their baby breathes its first breath, they know that day is coming; they just don’t know when.

I have few concrete memories from my childhood days, but I can imagine, and still have the faint trace feelings of when I first did this to my mom.

Maybe it was after she dropped me off at school, and when she tried to give me a hug, I squeamishly accepted it as fast as possible so no one would notice.

I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve come out to my mom.

I knew something was wrong the first time I told her, years ago now. I’d imagined a hundred different variations on what her reaction might be; the reality was none of them. She wasn’t angry, but she wasn’t happy either. 

She said everything I’d expected—God designed things a certain way, God loves me and will take care of me, the Bible is very clear—but all her words lacked any emotional bite. It was as if she was programmed to respond accordingly, to say those words, and I’m sure she meant them, in a way. But they felt empty, nonetheless.

I think the best way to understand your current situation, no matter how crazy amazing or crazy terrible, is to move away from it. It doesn’t really matter how far you go, so long as you go long enough to forget, momentarily, whatever it is you just left.

An alternative perspective, is almost always a net positive. Moving back and forth, in and out of different situations, is even better. It builds self-awareness, which maybe a useless trait on its own, but oh how it enhances every other positive character trait out there if you’ve got it.

And it’s with that fresh perspective, that temporary memory loss of what living in my created nursing home is like, that I returned to that very same nursing home.

There are times in your life when you just have to let go. Supposedly this comes easy to some people, though I’ve never met anyone who would admit this. Whether you’re letting go of your kids, letting go of a city you love, a married partner who needs help you can’t provide, or your parents, at some point you have to let them go. Some people do it even though it’s hard. Some people don’t do it until their hands are forced.

Self-doubt is probably the biggest culprit here, the achilles heel for so many people, as it is for me. How do I know that my parents can live without me? Was I right to let them stay at home, instead of moving them into an assisted-living center of some kind? Did I build enough of a safety net for them?

I decided to leave for two months and will probably move out when I come back.

Did I make the right choice?

Every day is a chance to learn something new. This is one of my life philosophies.

Today will be yet another one of those chances, as the sun does not fail to rise and greet me with a warm “good morning.” I decide to open my eyes, get to my feet, and begin what will assuredly be a lesson-filled day.

Beginning every morning in contemplation is of the utmost importance. Of course, I will make myself some coffee, Cheerios, and milk. Perhaps I will also eat a banana, I’m not quite sure. But of all things to partake in, contemplation is the most important.

“Here are my plans,” I tell my mom.

I’m going to go travel for a couple months. I need to unplug. I need to get back into a right state of mind before deciding what happens next, whether I move out but stay closeby, whether I move somewhere and take up a full-time job again, or something else entirely.

I write down these plans on her calendar so she’ll know where I am, and when to expect me to be home.

“So, it’s in October.”

“You’re moving out?” my dad suddenly asks me one morning. I guess he’s seen my little note.

I nod back to him.

“Where to?”

I shrug. I don’t really know anyway and haven’t actually committed to anything.

“Why?”

It’s like the waves.

Like standing at the ocean’s shore, sand at your feet, staring out towards the edge of the world where the ocean and the sky marry into a faded, faint blue. The waves, they washed over you once; you were soaked, cold, and shivering, but now you’ve started to dry. You can finally feel the sun shining on your back.

Like looking out at the ocean and seeing that the waves, they don’t stop coming. They crash onto the beach, one after another, inching their way up towards your feet. They tempt you to react—to run the other way, but after some time, you realize they never seem to reach you anymore.