When my only daughter, Emmy, was born 18-and-a-half years ago, I was immediately overwhelmed. With love, sure, but mostly with life. I already had a 17-month-old toddler, Sawyer, at home. My husband, Chris, traveled a lot for work. How on Earth was I going to survive with two little ones in diapers by myself? Now, it’s been just a couple of weeks since we sent Emmy off to her first year of college at Penn State, and I don’t know how I will manage without her here.

While Sawyer was a busy, on-the-move preschooler, Emmy, from a very early age, could sit and color contentedly for hours. I remember leaving her once, just 2 at the time, in our playroom so I could tend to Sawyer upstairs in our little split-foyer home. I felt panicky during the minutes I was away from her, but, when I returned, she sat in the same chair, still happily doodling with crayons in an array of bright colors. Before taking my seat next to her, I stared in wonder. Who was this calm, creative child?

Don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t all Crayola rainbows and tissue-paper butterflies. With that artistic spirit comes a bit of environmental chaos. In fact, numerous studies have linked messiness with creativity. I can confirm that the spot where I sit in my home writing for this very magazine is surrounded by an impending avalanche of books, magazines, pens and papers threatening to send a half-drunk cup of room-temperature coffee flying onto the rug. Emmy’s space was her bedroom and, boy, did she express herself within its walls. For my own sanity, I usually just kept the door shut. Out of sight, out of mind. And, yes, I know this is rich coming from someone who’s just declared her space a wreck too.

But, on occasion, I’d spend the better part of my day giving her bedroom a thorough cleaning while she was in school, blissfully unaware of my intrusion. Armed with trash bags to stuff with garbage and donations, I’d sift through every nook and cranny. It was a challenge, to say the least, but the reward was worth it: little glimpses into her sparkling soul. In her desk drawers, I’d discover illustrated fairy tales she’d written. On the walls of her closet, she’d hung pictures of hearts and stars with motivational sayings, things like “You were meant to shine bright.”

She’s always used a mix of words and colors to communicate; it’s no wonder she ended up working on her Grimsley High School yearbook and plans to study journalism. Once, when she was 8 and had gotten in trouble, she left me a note on our kitchen island: “I am sorry for the way I acted. I was being a total jerk. It’s just that a lot of people have been mean to me. Love, Emmy. P.S. I hope you understand.” How can you stay mad at that?

Generally, she shied away from reading her own writing aloud, but, every once in a while, she couldn’t resist. Two weeks after leaving me that heartbreaking note, she penned a tune she titled “Forever Home.” Thankfully, 37-year-old me had the foresight to capture the moment she sang it to me, her crystal-blue eyes twinkling as she smiled proudly.

Now, a decade later, I’m back at home after loading all of her worldly belongings into our SUV and dropping her off in State College, Penn. My finger hovers for a moment and then I hit play on that video. Her squeaky little voice fills my ears as tears fill my eyes:

Forever home, you’re never alone

You’re always with someone,

Say hello, say goodbye,

Say hello, change your mind,

’Cause you’re with someone,

And even if you’re not,

You’ll still have us.

Once again, I feel overwhelmed. Somehow, I managed to get through those years of having two little ones in diapers. So much, in fact, that a decade later, we even decided to add a third, Wilder, who is almost as old as Emmy was when she wrote that song. And no, I don’t know how to keep going without her here every day, but I know I will. And I hope that she knows that no matter where life leads her over the next four years and beyond, we are always with her and we remain her steadfast “Forever Home.”