Both Feet In
On leaving what was good to find what is better
Yesterday I sat in my car outside the front of my kids’ school, windows down, engine off, waiting for my boys to come through the front doors on the last day of school. A sea of green caps and gowns came around the corner before they did — seniors, kids who had started right here in this same building years ago, making their way back one last time for the senior walk. They moved slowly and happily through the courtyard, stopping to wrap their arms around old teachers, posing for photos with proud parents, gathering at the flagpole for high-fives and hugs.
I watched them and felt something catch in my chest. I wanted that for my boys too — that easy familiarity, those roots, those teachers who had known them for years. And here we were, preparing to leave before any of that had fully taken hold, stepping away toward something completely different, something still unknown. I’ll admit I felt a flicker of doubt. A quiet worry. But underneath it all, a hope that what we were walking toward would be worth what we were walking away from.
This fall, a couple of years into our slow and steady conversion to the Catholic faith, all three of our boys will walk through the doors of a private Catholic school for the first time.
The decision to choose a Catholic school grew quietly over months of wondering and praying and late night conversations with my husband Erjon. He is an Albanian immigrant and an electrician — practical, hardworking, the kind of man who lets me dream and then quietly asks the one question that makes the dream real. He examined our budget while I registered for a campus tour. And then one November morning I walked into those hallways for the first time, not quite knowing what to expect. From one building I heard it before I saw it — band, choir, a music class with what looked like first or second graders dancing a boogie, arms out, giggling. Walls alive with student work — several robotics trophies, the Beatitudes painted on a mural, and essays about Carlo Acutis. A nun walking unhurriedly into the science lab like it was the most natural thing in the world. I could picture my boys here, all the way through graduation — making friends, trying new things, growing in their faith, being challenged academically. I drove home knowing I had found what our family was looking for.
Once Erjon and I looked at each other and said yes, the real work began — financial aid applications, scholarship forms, teacher recommendations, assessment tests, and an interview. I scoured my email every day for a month, looking for updates on results, replies, or requests for information needed by the admissions office. I tried to stay present for my boys — homework, daily chit-chat, the ordinary rhythm of our days — meanwhile being slightly consumed by the undercurrent of uncertainty about financial aid and test scores. And then, somehow, thankfully, we found ourselves on the other side — acceptance letters in hand, enrollments completed for next fall.
We waited until May to tell our boys — one afternoon in our living room while munching on after-school snacks. For Michael, his first response was measured — was there flag football? There was, I told him. For Jamie and William it was not gentle at all. “But I don’t want to leave!” — loud, clear, straight to the point.
And then Jamie, who forgets nothing, looked up and said: “Remember when we went to that other school for two weeks? I don’t want to leave agaiiiin.”
I cringed — back in January I had enrolled my boys in a classical charter school for two weeks, convinced it was close enough to what I actually wanted. It was not. I called our local elementary school and begged to have them back. And somewhere in the middle of that detour, Erjon and I got honest with each other. No more halfway measures. The Catholic school I had always assumed was out of our financial reach suddenly became the only conversation worth having.
Last night, on the drive home from tutoring, William went quiet for a moment — and this time, no drama, no protest, just a calm and honest statement from a boy who knew what he felt.
“Mom?”
“Yes honey?”
“I don’t want to go to Holy Family. I’ll miss my friends.”
Ah. There it was — the open, honest truth.
I turned the music down a bit and kept driving, William’s words ringing in my ears. I knew how he felt. I had felt it myself just yesterday, standing out by that flagpole watching the seniors say goodbye.
“I know sweetie, we love our friends — do you want to play with Max tomorrow?”
Jamie chimed in immediately from his side of the backseat. “What about Reif?”
“We’re still here, guys. We still live here. How about I call Max and Reif’s parents and set something up this weekend?”
And we made the next plan, right there in the car, because that was what they needed — not a speech, just the reassurance that the people they love are not going anywhere. As I rounded the next corner I turned the music back up, letting the moment finish for now. There would be other conversations. I would listen for them, and when they came up we would walk through those too.
They didn’t choose this. And for boys who have spent years building friendships on a playground they know by heart, school is everything — their whole world, their whole community, their friends and their routine. But as parents we hold the bigger picture for them, the one they can’t see yet. We lead them toward something good even when it is hard. That is what we believe we are called to do.
But still, it’s tricky when I look into my little boy’s eyes and see that sadness over something as sweet as friendship. Dear Lord, there better be some awesome little buddies at Holy Family.
Erjon and I are learning what it means to live by faith — to commit fully — our children’s world, our finances, our daily rhythm, all of it on the line, knowing the outcome is never fully in our hands. I think of that Ash Wednesday evening after we had toured Holy Family together for the first time. We slipped into the nearby parish — the church full of students and parents and families, all seeing in each other the same small dark cross — human, forgiven, and beloved. Erjon reached for my hand and I thought — this would be worth it. This is the life we are building. Not perfect, not without cost, but pointed in the right direction.
I hope we are right.
Whatever you are stepping toward this season — I hope you feel permission to take it. Something is ending so that something else can begin. Both feet in.
more of this story: Two Weeks That Changed My Mind🌿
Sharon Manaj writes about faith and family at Rooted at Home.