I was floating in happy thoughts in the past month, spending time with my son Carlos who now lives in New Zealand. When he and RJ, his wife, left years ago, he was my adventure buddy with the time and interest for long conversations with me. When he came home, I was flooded with joy and something else I didn’t expect – a realization that the boy who was once my buddy, my travel partner, is no longer mine in the way he used to be.

For years, even while working on a career, Carlos was my constant companion. We climbed mountains together, sharing the thrill of reaching summits. We took long drives, crossing islands by RORO ferry, laughing at detours, savoring the unplanned stops along the way, arguing about distances to a destination. He dropped everything when I invited him to go abroad with me. He was always ready for the next journey, my willing accomplice in discovering life outside the ordinary. He was not just my son; he was also my friend.

But this visit reminded me that things have changed. At 37, he is now the head of his own family. His days revolve around bikes and bike tours in that beautiful part of the world where nature puts up a magnificent show in every corner. After work, he is a father, playing with Oli, his daughter, putting her to sleep, and keeping routines. At home, he is the man of the house, performing tasks we don’t do in our country, like chopping wood and feeding the fireplace.

Last month, watching him , I saw a man absorbed in the simple rituals of fatherhood. My whims, which once set the course for our adventures, are no longer his to fulfill. They are now mine alone to pursue.

And so I’ve had to learn how to keep moving forward, even if he is no longer beside me. I taught myself to camp, to pitch a tent, to load my pickup with gear and head out on my own. I drive out to camp under the stars, still chasing the adventures we once shared—but without Carlos. It is bittersweet— my son has found his place in life and I catch that thought in the silent moments of sipping coffee outside my tent, from a mug dampened by morning dew.

My son has built a new life in New Zealand, where he has found delight in a job which involves a special interest in mountain bikes. When he was in the Philippines, he designed a mountain bike which was manufactured in China, launched in the local market, and dropped out of sight when the pandemic stopped all forms of gathering.

I am happy for him—proud, in fact. Yet, as I watched him during his visit, I felt this odd contradiction –he is here, but he is not here.

He is present as a father, a husband, a grown man in charge of his own choices. But the boy who once dropped everything to join me on a trip abroad, a mountain hike, or an island road trip—that boy has quietly taken his leave.

I realized this not with sadness, but with acceptance. Parenting, after all, is a long exercise in letting go. We raise children to be independent, to love and to be loved, to form families of their own. The moment we succeed, we also lose something. Not completely, but enough to leave a space that can only be filled by memory.

Many times as I watched my son with his daughter during the visit, I felt a quiet contentment. He may not be “mine” anymore, but he is exactly who he was meant to be. The buddy of my adventures has become the father of his own. And while his journeys now take him elsewhere, I carry with me the privilege of having shared so many of his first ones.

He is there, but not there. And maybe that is the true journey of parenthood—to find joy not in holding on, but in watching our children move forward, even if it means leaving us behind.

I’ve visited him twice in New Zealand, but now I am planning a visit where I can join them in one of their adventures. Perhaps not on a mountain climb anymore, but maybe on a quiet walk by the lake, my granddaughter’s little hand tucked in mine. The adventure continues—only this time, with another generation to share it with. (Email: [email protected])