I visited my daughter in Paris and had to acknowledge how much our dynamic has changed as she's grown. As a single mom, it's bittersweet.

• I was a single mother, and my daughter and I have always been close.
• But as time goes on, it's been hard for me to adjust to the fact that she's growing up.

Curled on the couch in my daughter Kristil's Parisian apartment, the sound of a key turning jolted me awake. It was 5 a.m. Relief at hearing Kristil's return home turned to anxiety as I recognized the voice of a friend whom I disapproved of. My mind was filled with worry and apprehension, and I was wondering why she had stayed out so late and why she had brought her friend home with her.

That night, years of pent-up concerns I harbored came to a head. A confrontation, more about my fears and protective instincts than anything else, unfolded. It was brief yet intense, leading to her friend's swift departure. The immediate aftermath was a strained silence between Kristil and me, a palpable divide that marked a turning point in our relationship.

Earlier that day, Kristil and I had enjoyed a typical Parisian day strolling through the Left Bank, sipping lattes and lost in conversation. These moments were precious and rare, as I could only visit Kristil once or twice a year. That night, when she went out to spend time with friends, my mind wrestled with a mix of expectation and concern.

When my daughter went to college, it was hard to let go

Kristil and I had always been close. I was not just a single mother; I was her only parent. We shared everything, a pattern that continued through her teenage years. When she entered high school and focused on academics with the dream of attending a top-rated college, I became her companion in supporting her to make that dream a reality. When she earned a full scholarship to an Ivy League college, I left her at the gates of Columbia University — a world away from our small Midwestern life in Wisconsin. It was a moment of both heartbreak and pride.

During her second year at Columbia, I noticed subtle changes in Kristil. When she returned home that Christmas, her language, style, and even her pace had shifted. She seemed to move through life with a new, brisk confidence. But our conversations, once filled with familial warmth, began to feel more like intellectual exchanges. She questioned things more, a reflection of the critical thinking skills she was developing in college.

It was difficult for me to adapt to the changes in our relationship dynamic. Discussions that used to be harmonious and agreeable became strained and challenging. Kristil questioned not just ideas and concepts but also beliefs and values that I thought we had both always agreed upon. These changes sometimes left me feeling uneasy, as if our shared perspectives were shifting beneath me.

My response to this shift wasn't always ideal. I struggled to adjust to this new aspect of our relationship. I missed the simpler times when we used to talk more straightforwardly and were more aligned. Sadly, I started keeping things to myself and tiptoeing around issues when I wanted to say something.

The confrontation with Kristil and her friend in Paris felt like the culmination of years of harbored concerns and miscommunication. Kristil's growing independence clashed with my protective instincts. I grappled with accepting that she was no longer a teenage girl but a 28-year-old woman forging a life of her own.

After our argument, I knew I had to address my feelings

The days following our clash were cold and silent. We only communicated to inform each other about our arrivals and departures from her apartment. Walking the streets of Paris alone, I had ample time to reflect on our relationship. As I pondered about my youth and the choices I made — many of them questionable — I realized my own parents' constant need to be in control had often forced me away. It occurred to me I was replicating this same pattern with Kristil. I knew I had to make a change, but I did not know how.

As I sat alone in a café that afternoon, tears streaming down my face, I thought about what was important to me: my relationship with my daughter. Kristil had already expressed her wish to move beyond our disagreement, but I had been too stuck in my pain and judgment to move forward. As I walked back to the apartment that night, overwhelmed with memories of her as a little girl, I realized that the change needed to come from within me.

That night, I expressed all my emotions and feelings, clarifying that my apprehensions and anxieties were based on a profound and unwavering love for her. This love was unconditional and long-lasting. Though neither of us possessed all the solutions, we mutually agreed that searching for them was a journey worth embarking on. As we talked about setting boundaries for the rest of our time together, we turned a new page, leaving our disagreement in the past. The rest of our visit was filled with the warmth of Christmas and conversations about our aspirations for the upcoming year, moments that we both cherished.

Two weeks later, as I sat on the plane, gazing out at the clouds, I felt a complex mix of emotions. My heart was heavy with a sense of loss, yet I was also feeling hopeful. Kristil, who had once depended on me for almost everything, was now navigating life on her terms. Our bond remained transformed, but intact. She still needed me, yes, but in a new way. As I considered our future, it became apparent that our journey together was simply unfolding, much like us, into a new chapter.