Daycare: The First Separation — Why You Can Breathe Again and Still Feel Sad

You did your thorough research. You asked your mom friends. You asked the Facebook groups. You had a tour of the daycare that was highly recommended. You were impressed by the teachers — warm, patient, and caring. The space felt safe and inviting: bright colors, soft rugs, tiny tables and chairs, shelves filled with plush animals and little toy cars, a cozy reading corner with picture books lined in a row. Everything looked clean, organized, and cheerful. You felt excited and good about your decision — your little one will start daycare!

The month passed by very quickly. You prepared the long list: sleeping mat, an extra pair of clothes, a sippy cup, diapers, hand sanitizer, and several pairs of socks. You decided that you would be the “designated driver”-you will be taking your little one on the first day.

You put your son in the stroller. The moment you started walking toward the daycare, you began feeling butterflies in your stomach — the same way you feel when you’re scared. The tummy sensation grew bigger and bigger, then jumped to your chest, making it difficult to breathe.

You opened the door, handed your son over, and he started crying hysterically. Although the teachers were trying their best to soothe him, you were terrified by how loud his cry was.

You rushed to the Parkside Avenue station. You hopped on the Q train. And all of a sudden, instead of the relief and excitement you were expecting, you started feeling tears you tried to suppress — after all, you had just done your makeup and had a 10 a.m. meeting with your team. But the tears had a different plan. They didn’t want to play hide-and-seek. You felt a lump in your throat. All of a sudden, it was hard to breathe.

You realized you couldn’t suppress it anymore, so you camouflaged by wearing sunglasses — so you could cry on the train without anyone seeing.

“The next stop is DeKalb Avenue, please stand clear of the closing doors,” you heard — and that’s when it started pouring really hard. You took out your phone to distract yourself, scrolling through unread messages and Instagram updates.

As the day went by, you got your first update from the daycare — a picture of your son sitting in circle time. Your heart melted. He looked so cute, and you felt a rush of joy and pride. He was wearing his Old Navy sweater and sweatpants. He looked happy. You sent the picture to your partner. You felt good about this milestone.

All of a sudden, you noticed you didn’t have a lump in your throat anymore. You were breathing. You felt another rush of joy. You started forwarding the picture to your mom, your friends, and your in-laws. Hearts and likes started pouring in.

At lunchtime, you went out with your best friend, who is also a mom. You vented about your first drop-off, and she said, “Yes, I felt the same.” All of a sudden, you felt comforted. You talked nonstop about your ups and downs on the train ride, showing her the cute picture of your son. You noticed her smile—and a little sadness in her eyes — when you described your tears that refused to cooperate.

The day passed quickly. You rushed to the 23rd Street station to catch the R train, then transferred to the Q at DeKalb Avenue. You heard again, “Please stand clear of the closing doors.” But this time, you weren’t wearing sunglasses to hide your tears. You felt excitement in your chest — to see your son again and ask the teacher a million questions.

When you got off at Parkside Avenue, you were almost sprinting to the daycare, despite not running a marathon. You opened the door. You saw your son on the teacher’s hip, cuddled close while she sang a song. Your heart melted again.

All of a sudden, your son saw you and started reaching his arms toward you, saying, “Mama.” This was the moment you had waited for all day — like a slow-motion movie — his little run toward you, your hug. The teacher gave you a detailed report: how long he napped, what he ate, and how he slept. Everything sounded more than kosher.

You decided not to put him in the stroller — instead, you carried him while pushing it. You felt the warmth of his body, your breathing syncing together. You were crying again on the street, but this time you weren’t hiding your tears. They felt like tears of reconnection — tears of joy.

Daycare is more than a practical decision — it’s a symbolic separation. It carries with it layers of grief, fear, and longing — not only for the child, but for the mother too. Both are stepping into something new: the child into a world beyond home, and the mother into a life no longer defined only by constant closeness.

But when the environment is supportive, the separation becomes bearable. The caring teacher who gently sings while soothing the crying child, and the mom’s friend who listens and validates her tears — they both create what Winnicott called a holding environment: an emotional space that allows both mother and child to fall apart a little and still feel safe enough to keep going.

In these moments, the importance of the holding environment becomes so clear. The baby needs someone who can stay calm, attuned, and present — a teacher who can hold their tears without fear. And the mother needs that too. She needs a space where she can cry, laugh, and be understood without being told to “enjoy her freedom” or “get over it.”

That’s what I think about often in my work with mothers. Therapy, too, is a kind of holding. I listen. I laugh with them. Sometimes I share their sadness. Through this mirroring, something softens. They begin to feel seen — not as someone who should have it all together, but as a woman who is human, feeling, and growing alongside her child.

Because when we are held — truly held — we find the courage to hold others.