Motherhood Transformed: The Peace of Shifting Roles in the Parent-Child Relationship

In December, I traveled to Scotland to visit my daughter, Erin, who lives in Edinburgh. Although she has lived in the UK for several years now and I’ve flown over the pond more times than I can count, this trip hit different.

As I packed and repacked the same two tired suitcases for the fourth time in the two weeks leading up to the trip, something felt uneasy. Was I packing too much? Did I have enough underclothes for three weeks? Toothbrush…check. Retainer…check. Passport…check. Hair care products…check. Socks, wool sweaters, fleece-lined leggings, boots…check, check, check.

Something was off.

I stopped repacking and slung myself onto the side of the bed in frustration, sweating and rubbing my forehead. I felt exhausted. I couldn’t understand why this trip felt so different from all the others. I stared at the well-organized suitcases—clothes packed neatly into matching cubes.

And then it dawned on me.

I had packed clothes that looked like somebody’s momma.

This trip felt different because it was different—because I was different.

I cracked up laughing at myself and started unpacking. Something so simple, yet so complex: the parent-child role reversal. I was no longer traveling as a caregiver or parental counselor visiting a dependent college student still learning her place in the world. I had done my job as a responsible parent. My daughter is now a working professional with her own career path, priorities, and apartment.

Sitting on the side of the bed, I gave myself permission to shift roles.

I was no longer the director of someone else’s life. I was now a supporting actress, with someone else playing the lead role in her own story.

In that moment, I felt lighter.

I reminded myself that I am Renetta—a single, active, vibrant middle-aged woman who golfs, creates art, loves to swim, and dances to old-school R&B—who just happens to be the parent of a young adult living in the UK. I wasn’t traveling to manage or fix anything or anybody. I was traveling to visit her for the holidays, explore, and embrace the new version of myself.

Excitement fell over me like a cold splash on a water ride at Six Flags.

Yes—I had packed like a mother.
But I repacked like a woman on exploration.

I landed in Edinburgh safely in the welcoming arms of my young adult daughter.

We cooked together.
We shopped.
We ate.
We laughed (and cried).
We danced in our pajamas to Kool & The Gang’s solo hit “Get Down On It”—and ate some more.

Nothing was rushed. Nothing was urgent. For once, there was nothing to manage.

I spent nineteen days exhaling.

She’s fine.
I’m fine.

And then there is the harp.

Erin plays the Celtic harp, and without ceremony or announcement, she gives me little performances—just for me. No audience. No agenda. Just sound filling the room, string by string, note by note. The music is soft, intentional, and confident in its own space.

I sit quietly and listen, realizing I am not just hearing music—I am witnessing a life transformed into adulthood. I calm my mind and stay in the moment.

My daughter is no longer someone I am guiding through the world. She is a woman standing fully in it.

There is something deeply humbling about watching your child become themselves without needing you to intervene. I am not here as a caretaker or problem-solver. I am here as a witness—to her rhythm, her independence, her beauty, her becoming. She is perfectly made, and I love that young lady with a depth that feels both tender and strong.

Strings tuned over time.
Discipline layered with grace.
Each intentional pluck of a string creates music that requires patience, strength, and gentleness all at once.

I hear her practice in the other room and think about all the unseen work and dedication that must have gone into creating something so beautiful—in art, in life, in love.

This trip gave me something I didn’t realize I needed: guiltless rest.

My mind cleared. My body softened. My spirit felt safe enough to exhale. I was not performing productivity or proving resilience. I was simply there—loving, listening, and letting joy exist without explanation.

I didn’t come to Scotland to find myself.

I came and realized I was already here—sitting in a quiet room, listening to a harp, watching the ocean through the wide windows of her apartment, and resting in the sound of what I helped create.

And for now, that is more than enough.

If this season of shifting roles and evolving relationships resonates with you, you may also find insight in Different Lenses, Different Lanes.

Live Whole. Live Seen. Live Free.

Renetta