Finding Unexpected Comfort When Your Child Begins Adult Life

What the trains outside my daughter’s apartment taught me about love, courage, and letting go

The first thing I did when we moved my daughter into her studio apartment last weekend was check out the view.

A recent college graduate, she’d chosen to live downtown, within walking distance of her new job. She wanted to build a life rooted in movement, vitality, fresh air, and human connection.

From her 7^th floor perch, I expected to see concrete, traffic, and tall buildings.

I parted the vertical blinds and couldn’t believe what I saw: a canopy of trees stretched out below her apartment building, softening the edges of the city. As I looked more closely, I noticed train tracks curving through the greenery.

I wondered if they were active.

Growing up, I was fascinated by trains. There was a train crossing on the way to my aunt and uncle’s house in northern Indiana, and it seemed like we got stopped there every time we visited. As eager as I was to see my cousins, I never minded the unexpected delay.

I’d press my nose against the car window and study each passing car. I looked at the colors, numbers, and logos, wondering what cargo was being carried inside. And rather than asking my dad where he thought the train was heading, I imagined some beautiful far away place that someday I might visit myself.

Mostly, though, I loved the sound. That rhythmic clickety-clack was soothing to my senses. I loved the thought that for a few minutes, this little part of the world had no choice but to pause.

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Later that afternoon, while I was hanging clothes in Natalie’s closet, I heard a familiar sound in the distance. I hurried to the window. Sure enough, a train was making its way through the trees.

I immediately recorded it and sent it to my parents, who are in their mid-eighties now. Somehow it felt like a piece of my childhood had followed me here.

My husband headed back home that evening, but Natalie had invited me to stay a few extra days to help unpack and keep her company while she got settled in a city where she knew no one.

The first thing she set up was a small kitchen table beside the picture window. Over the next few days, it became our favorite spot. Whenever we needed a break from unpacking, we’d carry our snacks and cold drinks to the table and gaze out at the trees.

One evening, while we were eating dinner, Natalie mentioned she didn’t really miss having the Wi-Fi or television set up yet. Right on cue, we heard the distant rumbling of a train coming down the track.

“And we have the trains to entertain us,” she said with a smile.

We paused our conversation and watched a string of colorful cars make its way through the trees.

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When it came time for me to head home, I expected to feel emotional.

The truth is, I had been struggling for a couple of weeks.

I’d been feeling unusually low—low enough that I made an appointment to get bloodwork done. I couldn’t tell whether what I was feeling was tied to this season of transition, hormones, anemia, grief, or some combination of all three.

I just knew I wasn’t quite myself.

And yet, as I drove away from Natalie’s apartment, I felt more peaceful than I expected.

Curious about why, I paid attention.

Our emotions often provide important information about which needs are being met and which ones are not. What I was feeling seemed worth exploring.

I believe part of the peace I felt came from that surprisingly serene view from her 7^th floor apartment.

While I was there, I found myself gravitating toward that giant window filled with unexpected green space. And every time a train passed, I found myself pausing, just as I had all those years ago.

The train wasn’t blocking my path anymore. Nor was it stopping traffic. But somehow it still carried the same message:

Pause for a moment.

The world will keep moving without you.

I felt peaceful leaving Natalie’s apartment because a need had been met. Looking back, I think that window was showing me something I’d gotten away from during a busy spring:

Room to pause.

Room to think.

Room to hear myself again.

But there was another reason I felt more peace than I expected.

When my daughters were in elementary school and we moved to a new state, I remember explaining that their new school had different emergency procedures than their previous one. I let the girls know that anytime it was necessary to vacate the building, they would be taken to different safe places—one to the middle school and one to the high school with their respective classes.

I remember how unsettling that felt to me. The sisters wouldn’t even be together.

I knelt down, held their arms, and said something I desperately wanted them to remember.

“Even if I’m not with you, know for certain that I am waiting for you, and I will get there as soon as I can.”

I wanted those words to live inside them.

Years later, a reader left a comment on my blog that I’ve never forgotten.

She wrote:

“Because I sat on the stoop as he went off to elementary school and was there waiting when he came home, my son thought I sat there all day waiting for him.”

I cried when I read that.

I loved the thought of a little boy walking through his school day believing someone loved him so much that they spent the day waiting for his return.

And maybe that’s why leaving Natalie in that great big city to start her adult life felt different than I expected.

Because while she may not know anyone in that city yet, I know where she is.

And she knows where I am.

The older my children get, the more I realize that love is not always about being physically present.

Sometimes love is knowing someone who will answer the phone when we call.

Someone who is cheering for you.

Someone who believes in you.

Someone who will come if we need them.

Do not underestimate the comfort that comes from knowing where your people are.

Do not underestimate the courage that grows when we know someone is in our corner, especially as we step into new beginnings.

When our people are safe, we feel safer.

When our people believe in us, we are more likely to believe in ourselves.

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After several days of unpacking boxes, hanging pictures, organizing kitchen cabinets, and making late-night runs to the grocery store, Natalie’s apartment looked and felt like home. We had one last special evening together, and I told her I’d be getting on the road the next day before she woke.

As I was tiptoeing out in the early morning hours, I placed a note on the kitchen table beside the window—the table where we’d shared meals, watched trains, and gotten a feel for this new season.

In the note, I reminded Natalie of something I’ve told her many times over the years, borrowing a line from one of our favorite Mat Kearney songs:

“I’d go anywhere with you.”

As I drove away, I realized something.

Maybe parenting adult children is accepting you can’t go everywhere with them anymore.

And finding new ways to remind them they’re not traveling alone.

The truth is, I can’t follow Natalie onto every train she boards. I can’t sit beside her as she navigates every new experience, relationship, disappointment, triumph, or hard decision that lies ahead.

But love doesn’t disappear when the journeys become separate; it simply changes form.

As the miles stretched between us, I thought about those trains outside Natalie’s window.

As a child, I used to wonder where they were going.

Now I realize that’s not always the most important question.

Sometimes it is enough to know that the people we love are safely on their way.

And to trust that wherever the tracks lead, our love goes with them.

My hand in yours,
Rachel

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🤝 The comment section of the Treehouse is gold each week because of you. When you comment, we all feel a little less alone.

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📅 One thing that has helped me through several seasons of letting go and beginning again is having something to look forward to.

As my daughters have grown and my role as a mother has continued to evolve, I’ve learned that creating space for new experiences matters. Sometimes that has meant saying yes to something that felt a little outside my comfort zone—a new place, a new adventure, or a new group of people.

Over the past two Septembers, that willingness to step into the unknown has led me to some beautiful places and introduced me to remarkable women navigating many of the same life transitions. Each adventure has reminded me that courage grows when we don’t venture into new seasons alone.

With my September 2026 Big Island Adventure fully booked, I am excited to share that my September 2027 Pura Vida Costa Rica Retreat is already confirmed and will open to the public on June 24. Several returning travelers have already reserved their spots, and I would love for you to join us if the idea speaks to your heart.

If you’d like to learn more about the trip or join the notification list, you can find all the details here.

As a thank-you for supporting Rachel’s Treehouse, paid subscribers will receive access to the early registration link 24 hours before public registration opens.

“Found there’s only so much
You wanna see alone.”
-Mat Kearney, Anywhere with You