There’s a moment in every parent’s life when you realize the future you imagined for your child isn’t the one they’re choosing. And it hit me in waves I wasn’t prepared for.

Senior year. The major milestone you anticipate for years, but somehow, sneaks up on you. Even with incredible support from friends and colleagues, I remind myself, “It’s normal, Karen.” Kids move on. They go to college. It's all part of the plan.

Nothing could prepare me for the moment my son, Peyton, said, “Mom, I’m applying to West Point and the Naval Academy.”

Peyton has always been driven- a natural leader with a heart both bold and kind. But this was not something I ever anticipated.

At first, I felt pride swelling in my chest- quickly followed by a deep ache.  Is this what suffocating feels like?  This wasn’t the future I’d envisioned. The yellow brick road I imagined us walking together- the clear, predictable path of college visits, cap-and-gown celebrations, frequent visits for Sunday supper- had veered in an unexpected direction.  

And so, I anxiously began walking down a new path with him.

It’s mid-summer before senior year. Peyton’s preparing applications for West Point and the Naval Academy. I’m cautioned that the application process is grueling, each academy holding an intense and highly competitive process designed to filter the elite- and I can’t help but feel humbled my son chose to pursue this path so passionately.

The application process demanded:

1. High GPAs and strong ACT/SAT scores, demanding extensive academic effort and preparation, often under significant pressure.  
2. Comprehensive personal, academic, and extracurricular details, showcasing leadership and discipline from an early age.  
3. Thoughtful, personal, and critical essays highlighting motivation, character, and alignment with leadership and military values.
4. Strong endorsements from teachers and community stakeholders emphasizing leadership, academic excellence, and character are required.  
5. The CFA, a rigorous candidate fitness physical assessment, requiring months of physical and mental training, as well as attention to nutrition, to meet military fitness standards.  
6. Comprehensive and often time-intensive medical screenings ensuring candidates meet strict physical requirements, with any discrepancies requiring additional evaluations- or even rejections.  
7. A nomination from a member of Congress, a senator, or the Vice President, which involves additional applications, essays, letters of recommendations and interviews.
8. Formal interviews with a panel of high-ranking military officers to assess leadership potential, commitment, and suitability.  

The process is not for the faint of heart, and in and of itself a test of grit, long before your application is even reviewed.

And all the while… don’t screw up and don’t get hurt in the most invigorating year of high school (#IYKYK senioritis sets in).

I asked Peyton to describe what the intensity felt like for him.

"Just the process for the congressional nomination requirement alone is like applying to three colleges. Applying for the Academy is not like applying to college. I’m applying for something bigger. I’m applying for the pursuit of serving others, not just myself."

I had to sit back and take it in- take in who this boy has become.

I’ve witnessed him juggle drafting numerous essays, chasing countless recommendations, powering through multiple fitness tests and grueling medical exams, all while still being a teenager. Every step of this process tested his resolve- and our family’s ability to let go. Peyton, of course, was undeterred. He remained laser-focused, talking about service, leadership, integrity, and a deep love for his country. It absolutely humbles me when I think of it.  He chose a path reflecting values we’ve instilled in him. And yet, it’s still so hard.

Hard to watch him grow into someone ready to serve others at the cost of his own comfort- and mine. Hard to wonder how our traditions will evolve when his seat at the table might be empty. Hard to accept my role has shifted from leading him to standing back as he leads himself.  

Now I see the yellow brick road was never his to walk- it was mine to imagine. Peyton chose a path reflecting values we’ve instilled in him: courage, integrity, and service. As I let go of the vision I once had, I discovered something even greater in its place: the honor of watching my son become the man he was meant to be.  

The yellow brick road I once imagined for him has faded. He’s chosen a detour from what I once thought was a guarantee. In my frequent moments of reflection, I ask myself: How could I possibly deprive him of the opportunity to lead, to serve and to make an impact with values we’ve been reinforcing since he was a young boy?

Now, I hear the Star-Spangled Banner differently.  I feel it differently. It’s not just a song- it’s a reminder of sacrifice, hope, and the incredible journey Peyton is choosing.   When people ask about Peyton’s plans, the admiration is clear, but there’s a sense of consolation too.  But I realize it's okay. Goodbye, yellow brick road.