Graduation

What Eagle Parents Taught Me About Letting Go

This week, I’ve been busy with the ceremonies and celebrations of my eldest daughter’s high school graduation. There have been awards banquets, family dinners, lots of clapping, too many parties, and several tears.

In all the emotional build-up to my first child leaving the nest, I found myself seeking some social media escape. Ironically, I found solace in another adulting drama unfolding just a few mountain sides away. This one was live on camera, the Big Bear Bald Eagle Cam put up by the Friends of Big Bear Valley.

High atop a 145-foot Jeffrey Pine at the edge of Big Bear Lake, two eaglets named Sunny and Gizmo were facing their own graduation of sorts. Their parents, Jackie and Shadow, had chosen an impressive home for their family—a formidable tree, one of the tallest in the forest, with thick branches offering ample support for the raptors’ twig-woven nest. The birds had taken up residence in the sleepy community of Fawnskin, just outside of the hustle and bustle of Big Bear. Their pine tree apartment provided a breathtaking view of the north side of the lake.

As new parents, Jackie and Shadow had a few challenges raising these eaglets. The constant vigilance of incubating eggs in January gave way to insistent appetites of just hatched younglings in February. Sharing the burden, each parent took to fishing and feeding by day, and protecting their brood by night.

Then came the late March snowstorm that dumped over two feet of snow. I watched along with millions of viewers as Jackie "mombrella-ed" her chicks through the blizzard, getting buried up to her neck in white powder. Tragically, the conditions were too much for a third, yet to be named eaglet. Posthumously named Misty, she was a sober reminder that in nature, as in life, fierce love offers no guarantees against loss.

The now family of four persevered, and by May, Sunny and Gizmo were getting bigger, bolder, and more restless. Often, the young eagles would clumsily venture to the edge of the nest, distracting their parents and terrifying viewers.

Sunny, the elder sister, was the first to feel the pull of the sky. And on one particularly crisp Monday morning, she took her maiden flight.

It was hardly graceful: a frenetic flapping of oversized wings, a leap into the sky with more hope than promise. After much effort staying aloft, she ended up in a nearby tree several dozen feet lower than her lofty home. Perched there, Sunny stood proud of her achievement and clearly a little perplexed about how she might return to the nest.

Her gracious parents swooped down to visit their daughter on her new roost, not to rescue her, but rather to encourage. After some squawking of instructions and a little instinctual support, Sunny took flight again, awkward and earnest.

This time, her parents joined her in the sky.

Catching thermals as a group, they circled high up into the heavens. Sunny was learning quickly, growing more comfortable with this new skill, this new responsibility, this new freedom. Mom and dad–maintaining a respectable distance–always kept a watchful eye just in case.

That night Jackie and Shadow returned to the nest. But Sunny did not. What was her curfew?

Early the next morning, just before dawn, Sunny reappeared. Her little sister Gizmo grew excited, animated, flapping wings in anticipation of the reunion. Their mother Jackie took to tidying the twigs and sticks, making no comment about Sunny’s nighttime absence. Shadow was already out on a dawnbreak fishing trip.

As the morning sun burst over the mountains, flooding the nest floor with golden light, Sunny landed softly on the familiar branches.

But something was different. Sunny’s energy had changed. She was vibrating with possibilities, the knowledge of what it feels like to soar. And although she had just arrived, Sunny was eager to get back into the sky to feel the cool mountain breeze on her feathers. Although she stayed in the nest that night, and chose not to venture too far from home the next day, mom and dad knew that things would never be the same. In fact, deep down, they knew this was how it was always supposed to be. Sunny was an eagle now—beautiful, powerful, graceful, inspiring, and free. Free to make choices, to live by her instincts, and learn to survive on her own.

For the last several days the nest sits empty much of the time—carefully arranged twigs, a scattering of feathers, that breathtaking view of the lake. A few days ago, Gizmo followed Sunny into the sky, and now these two teenage eagles are away from home more often than they stay. They seldom even fly with their folks, choosing to soar solo, exploring their own opportunities.

At dusk, Jackie and Shadow return from full days of flight and fish. The nest is much quieter now, cleaner, calmer. It rests with the satisfaction of a job done well, and holds a bittersweet nostalgia of all that hard work.

Maybe it was a coincidence that Sunny attempted her first flight on my daughter’s birthday. Or that the bald eagle is a symbol of the city where she plans to go for college? Probably not.

Mom and Dad—eagle and human—realize that raising children to leave the nest is perhaps the most beautiful contradiction of parenthood. We build the strongest possible foundation so that they can fly from it. We teach them everything we know so they can discover what we never could. We love them fiercely so that they can love others freely.

My daughter’s graduation this week is just the beginning—the commencement. Just like Sunny and Gizmo out there soaring, learning to fish by instinct and navigate by stars, my little eaglet turned eagle will be exploring, learning, and experiencing life with all her senses. And just like Jackie and Shadow, my wife and I will strive to be the wind beneath her, the belief deep within her, the love surrounding her, quietly cheering her on. It is just the beginning.

The nest may empty, the local sky may grow quiet, but what is planted in the eagle’s heart will persevere: respect for self, that unshakeable belief in one’s own wings, that drive to leap into the sky—these things will fly with her forever, and serve her well.

And perhaps next spring, when Jackie and Shadow return to their Jeffrey Pine to build anew, I’ll find myself watching again—not just for escape this time, but for the reminder that love's greatest triumph is teaching another soul to soar.

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