A Letter to the Mama Sending Her Child to School

My almost-four-year-old has had her wendagen at her basisschool these past few weeks. And the emotions that came with it? They left me breathless.

Like the air had been knocked straight out of my lungs.

Because how is this possible?

How is it possible that the teeny, tiny baby who once lay on my chest not so long ago…
is now waving me off, cheeks flushed with anticipation, eyes wide with wonder - and stepping into a whole new world?

You smile, of course. You bend down to fix their too-big backpack.
You whisper a soft, “Have fun, baby,” even though your voice catches and your throat burns just a little.

And then… they let go of your hand.

Sure, they’ve been to daycare. Maybe even peuterspeelzaal.
But this feels different. No one prepares you for this part - the emotional freefall.
The bittersweet ache of watching your baby step into a world where you don’t quite belong.

No one tells you how quiet your bike ride home will feel.
Or how loud your thoughts will be.

It felt like a slow-motion movie playing in my mind.
Flashes of her birth, the moment I first held her, skin to skin, both of us blinking into the bright newness of each other.
The way her fingers curled instinctively around mine, impossibly small and full of trust.
Her first smile- gummy and wide, like she already knew how loved she was.
Her wobbly first steps across the living room floor, arms outstretched like a tiny tightrope walker.
The first time she said “mama” and meant me.
The first time she scraped her knee and came running into my arms for comfort.
The quiet moments. The loud ones. The endless days and lightning-fast years.

All of it flickered by at once:
a collage of moments stitched together by love,
and I stood there, in the schoolyard, watching a new chapter begin, while mourning every version of her I’ve already said goodbye to.

If you’ve been pretending it’s fine while carrying a knot in your chest,
If you’ve been wondering if you’re the only one who feels completely unprepared, unspoken-to, unseen…

You’re not.

This isn’t just about school.
It’s about a transition- for your child and for you.

It’s about stepping into a system that’s unfamiliar, in a language that’s still unraveling in your ears, in a country that doesn’t always feel like yours yet.

It’s about growing pains - the kind that stretch your heart before they settle into your bones.

But one day…

You’ll walk in and know exactly which coat peg is theirs.
You’ll remember it’s fruit on Monday, sandwich on Friday.
You’ll meet another mama at the school gate who gives you that familiar look - the one that says, “I see you.”

You’ll hear your child singing Dutch songs in the bath and you’ll laugh, even if you don’t understand a word.
You’ll feel your roots, ever so slowly, reaching down.

So take the time to sit with your emotions.

After drop-off, grab a coffee.
Sit in silence. Cry if you need to.
Take a breath and let it out slowly.

You’re allowed to feel every shade of this:
The grief.
The pride.
The disorientation.
The bittersweetness.

This isn’t the end of your baby’s little years; it’s just a new chapter.
And one day soon, this too will feel less foreign.
You’ll find your rhythm soon enough.

And when you do get the chance, when the day is done, and the shoes are kicked off, and the big emotions have settled, soak them in.

That little body, still warm from the day’s adventures.
That soft, sleepy breath against your chest as they melt into you like they did when they were small.
Let them fall asleep in your arms after a long day of being so very brave.

Read the extra bedtime story.
Say yes to one more hug.

Feel their still-tiny hand in yours and know:
No matter how big the world gets,
To them, you are still the safest place.

With love,
Another mama who has stood in that very same hallway,
blinking back tears and whispering,
“We’ve got this.”