“Did you ask the guy at the front desk about the breakfast hours when you checked in?”

It was 10pm on a January night. Six hundred miles separated us as I lay in my treehouse bed and Kendall sprawled in her Hampton Inn queen in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Her stuffed animal puppy was tucked under her chin, her phone propped on a pillow. All I could see were her giant green eyes, the sheets partially covering her face.

“I’m only operating at about 40% brain power,” she cracked, wrung out from nine hours of interstate driving, “but I did ask him. He said it ends at 10. I tuned out the opening time.”

Yeah, no fake. This girl has been sleeping in till noon her entire Christmas break. Normally, the free hotel breakfast buffet featuring make-your-own waffles, powdered scrambled eggs, and endless fruit loops would be set up and broken down before her eyelids were even open. But she was on a mission, over halfway back to school in the silver Subaru, and eager to bust a move in the morning.

”So I’ll wake up before 10am and grab a coffee and biscuit, then hit the road.”

”Sounds perfect.” I replied

“Also, the front desk dude told me you are not allowed to check in unless you’re 21, can you believe that BS? But he saw on my driver’s license that my birthday is in two weeks so he let me slide.”

”Well, it’s the South so they are probably a little kinder there and willing to bend the rules.”

“Yeah but guess what else he said. He asked me if I had any animals with me. I was like ‘huh’? When I told him nope, he said, ‘you are very brave, traveling by yourself.’ ”

I rolled my eyes.

“Uh boy, really? Who doesn’t think an almost 21-year-old girl can drive cross country solo?”

Oh, wait. Me, a month ago.

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In August of 2024, Kendall’s sophomore year, she and I drove the Subaru to Louisiana together. Well, to be precise, I mostly drove, and she mostly slept. Which was actually a relief because when she wasn’t sleeping, she was complaining.

And so when the car needed to come back to Virginia at the end of that school year, I made an executive decision. I adore a good road trip, and I didn’t need a pain-in-the neck passenger riding shotgun and ruining it. Again. So I ignored her complaints — ie, “you are going to make me look like a diva, driving the car home while I fly!” — and executed my plan without remorse. I flew to NOLA, took her out to breakfast, then drove the packed car home myself, stopping at the Chattanooga Hampton Inn.

The next semester, Kendall studied abroad in Lisbon, flying to a different European city every weekend, navigating subway systems and youth hostels and the cohort of bizarre men who think the best way of engaging with a beautiful young woman is to leer while making smooching sounds. Really? Gross. She’d gotten used to giving them her resting b***h face, while honing her already strong self-awareness and safety skills.

Yet when it was time to plan the logistics of getting the Subi back to NOLA, I defaulted.

“I’ll drive, you fly,” I said.

“MOM! This is ridiculous. I can drive the car myself. If this is about managing your stress, I get it, but this seems silly.”

Busted.

It wasn’t about losing a great roadtrip, helping her get to school more efficiently, or any other lame-ass reason I could come up with. It was about me and my anxiety over her safety. In my mind, I was picturing all the highway hazards: 18-wheelers, inattentive amateur drivers, joy riders. On the other hand, I trusted her ability to do all the personal safety things: drive during the day, stop at populated rest stops, pick the parking spot under the brightest klieg light in the lot, generally pay attention, etc.

Hmm… which version of reality do I bet on? The one where Kendall is a badass, or the one where everyone else is just an ass?

I stewed on it for a couple of days.

Then I had one of those really embarrassing epiphanies, the kind that makes you want to cover your mirrors.

I never once thought of saying to Connor, “I’ll drive your Chevy to Denver and you fly,” when he moved there in September. I knew he loved a good solo road trip as much as I did, and would do all the personal safety things: drive during the day, stop at populated rest stops, pick the parking spot under the brightest klieg light, generally pay attention, etc. I was still going to worry about 18-wheelers, inattentive drivers, and joy riders of course. But the thought never crossed my mind to drive instead.

But of course, also, he’s a 6’2” dude.

Hello, double standard. No front desk guy in Bloomington, Indiana or Topeka, Kansas said to Connor, “You are so brave for driving alone”.

I wish I could tell you I had some elegant process for working through my embarrassing realization. That I weighed the risks rationally, compared the data, came to a measured conclusion.

What actually happened was more like the San Andreas fault finding a new resting place. Violently.

For days, the tectonic plates of Parent Sue — let her drive; don’t let her drive — strained in opposite directions. I’d decide she could drive, then imagine a blown tire on a dark stretch of I-20. I'd decide I should drive, then think about my life and my globe-trotting adventures, and how I wanted all that for her too. Then I’d picture some creep at a rest stop in rural Alabama. Back and forth, back and forth. The stress and rumination were reaching a crescendo when I finally realized what had to give.

I stood in front of the mirror I’d been wanting to cover, and made myself look.

I was asking Kendall to pay the price for my anxiety. Anxiety I wasn’t charging Connor at the same rate. Anxiety that had nothing to do with her competence and everything to do with her gender and my over-zealous imagination.

So I made my pronouncement: “Kendall, I was wrong. I cancelled your plane ticket and booked your hotel. You are driving alone.”

“Whoa, really? I’m shocked. What made you change your mind?”

“I just came to my senses.”

”Good job, mom.”

Kendall traversed the rest of Tennessee and a tiny triangle of Georgia. She spent several hours ambling through Alabama. Then the final stretch in Mississippi till she dropped down into Louisiana, crossing bridges over bayous and Lake Pontchartrain until New Orleans and her university came into view. She got so caught up with seeing her friends that she forgot to text the all-clear.

But fear not, I’d been checking her location all along.

Parenthood is a constant compromise, mostly with yourself. In this scenario, I want to:

1 - Keep my kid safe and calm my anxiety.

2 - Let my baby live and explore and learn and grow.

3 - Get mad at Mr. Front Desk while thinking I’m perfect.

Sigh.

As parents (and really as humans), we face these kinds of conflicts and contradictions constantly. But today I’m wondering, what do we do with them? Do we knee-jerk succumb to our anxiety and it’s stories? Do we ride that pendulum the other direction, enabling a free-for-all?

All I know is that I’m done strapping my fear to my kid’s back and making her carry it like my personal worry sherpa.

There are truths about this world — obnoxious, sexist, dangerous truths — that I’m not going to undo simply by pretending they don’t exist. But the girl’s got to make her own way in this world, and no amount of bubble wrap will help her do that.

So for now, I’ll say yes to risk when it’s just the right amount (read: what my intestines can handle). I’ll tell her flat out I’m feeling anxious and that is NOT her problem. I’ll wince every time I realize I’m worrying about Kendall in a way I never even considered with Connor. And I’ll continue to wear out the location feature on my iPhone.

To looking in the mirror,

Sue

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