“Baby” Busling, who will be 12 in January, recently graduated to solo bus riding. You would think—given that I started riding solo at eight, and my kids have been bus riders since (quite literally) day one—that this would be a triumphant transition for me.

You would be wrong.

I’m a bit embarrassed to admit this, but B’s first solo trip (to school, in September) was the first time either of my children rode the bus alone. And it was really, really hard for me.

Of course there was the feeling of loss, which I expected. Many of my best memories with my kids are our travels together—certainly the bus adventures, but mostly the day-to-day stuff, like walking to and from school.

I walked my kids to and from school every day for six years—longer if you count Chicklet’s preschool years. Those commutes provided a beautiful structure and rhythm to my days. Even in the midst of it — morning chaos, afternoon arguments, and all — I knew how precious those times were. We learned how to be in conversation with each other (and with the many people we passed regularly), to notice the small details of our neighborhood, to experience (ahem) the seasons.

Then Chicklet moved on to middle school and started walking with her friends. We missed our threesome, but I still had precious one-on-one time with my baby. (Until Covid hit, and we were all basically grounded.) Now, that baby is in middle school—a different one than their sister attends—two very short bus rides away. And here we are.

So yes, taking my kids to and from school is something I loved and will miss. But we still walk together almost every day—to the pharmacy, to the grocery store, to the post office, or just to get out. And to be honest, I love the freedom that comes with their increased independence. I love that I no longer have to plan my days—or schedule my work—around school start and end times.

The real issue is not that I’m grieving my children’s growth. It’s that I’m scared as hell to let them go places alone.

Here’s the thing: I’m a bit of a “nervous” mom.

My first pregnancy was not planned, and I wasn’t initially thrilled at the prospect of becoming a parent. But even in those first months of ambivalence (with a side of constant nausea), I felt a protective urge—a new level of vulnerability.

If I could just make it past the first twelve weeks, I told myself, I wouldn’t be at risk of a miscarriage. If I could just make it to viability, so that my child could survive even if she was born early. If I could just make it to full term. If I could just make it to the other side of labor and delivery with a living, breathing child in my arms.

But after she was finally in my arms—ambivalence fully obliterated from the second we met—the “if-justs” didn’t stop. If we could just make it past her birth weight. If we could just make it through the SIDS danger months. If we could just avoid the swine flu.

Then one day it dawned on me: I was never, not ever, going to stop worrying about this child.

I carried that realization like a weight. The words that kept repeating in my head in those early months were, I don’t think I can stand loving someone this much.

I assumed (or at least hoped) that I would eventually get a grip. I haven’t.

Fourteen years later, I still worry as much as I did in those first months of parenthood—except now, I have three* humans to worry about, and every day, I have less control over their safety. I worry about “small” things like hurt feelings and fevers. I worry about big things, like climate change and inequality and whether they’ll have access to housing, employment, or even clean water in the future.

But mostly, I worry about the specific threats that our patriarchal, white supremacist, misogynist, homophobic society poses to my specific children.

I am the mother of Black children. I am the mother of a Black girl. I am the mother of a gender expansive Black child who was assigned male at birth but fully embodies both masculine and feminine energy.

I’ve experienced—and repeatedly witnessed—the harassment that young girls and women endure when walking on the street, or waiting for or riding on the bus. I have witnessed—and (poorly) attempted to interrupt—violent and demeaning trans/homophobia on buses, even very recently. I also know Black, queer kids who have experienced homophobic bullying on their travels to and from school.

How can I send my kids out there, knowing what they will face? How can I send my little one out there, knowing that the world is not ready for their beauty? Knowing that at any moment, they might come across a grown man who is insecure about his masculinity, or a group of other kids with something to prove?

Busling is a remarkable human being, and I’m not just saying that because I’m their mama. I have never met anyone, of any age, as wise as my 11-year-old child. They are mature, capable, responsible, and absolutely ready for more independence and autonomy.

But every day, I fight myself to allow it. Maybe we should wait until 7^th grade, I think. Or at least until they turn 12. I think, Why rush things? Why not ride with my kid for as long as they want to ride with me? (They still do love to ride with me. We’re a pretty codepend— I mean, close, you see.)

But the thing is, next year, and the year after, and the year after that, my child will still be Black and trans, and our culture will still be anti-Black and transphobic.

The problem is not whether my kid is old enough to ride the bus without me. The problem is that this world isn’t safe for them. And no matter what I do, I can’t change the fact that they will—sooner or later—have to face it without me.

It is terrible and heartbreaking. And it is the truth.

*In 2014/15, Bus Nerd and I were foster parents to a beautiful toddler, known on this blog as HBE. I still worry about my HBE from afar.