This week, we packed up my son’s life in Gunnison, not just boxes and furniture, but memories, independence, and a chapter that shaped him into the man he’s becoming.
He graduated this spring from Colorado Western University, a milestone that still fills me with pride. For the past three years, he balanced full-time coursework while working as a manager at a local dispensary, proof of his dedication, responsibility, and resilience. That job wasn’t just income; it was community, purpose, and belonging. When the shop closed in December, it forced a crossroads neither of us was ready for. The next step meant leaving behind the small mountain town that had become home.
Gunnison gave him something rare, the kind of life that breathes. Crisp mornings, open skies, quiet streets, and endless access to the outdoors. It offered simplicity and space, adventure and grounding. It gave him room to grow into himself. So driving away from it felt like heartbreak. You could see it in his eyes , the grief of leaving a place that had wrapped around him and held him steady during some of his most formative years.
Now he’s back home with us in Aurora, a bigger city, louder streets, different rhythms. A place of opportunity, yes, but not the mountain silence his soul had grown accustomed to. He’s here because he’s brave enough to choose his future, even when it costs him something he loves. Still, bravery doesn’t cancel grief. And my heart aches watching him mourn a life he wasn’t ready to let go of.
As a mother, there’s a special kind of pain in seeing your child hurt, especially when you know the loss is real, even if the reason is right. I wish I could make the transition easier. I wish I could give him Gunnison and his career path at the same time. But life rarely works that way.
What I do know is this: he has what it takes. He has the work ethic, the heart, the intelligence, and the resilience to build something beautiful here, even if it looks different than what he imagined. I know he’ll find his people, his rhythm, and eventually, new spaces that feel like home. And I know the mountains will always be there, not as something lost, but as something that shaped him and will forever be part of who he is.
For now, we sit in the bittersweet , grieving what was while making space for what’s coming. Watching him start over hurts, but loving him means trusting the process. And even through heartbreak, I see hope quietly forming at the edges of this new beginning.
Sometimes coming home isn’t about returning to comfort, it’s about gathering strength for what’s next.
And I believe, deeply, that his next chapter is going to be powerful.