I haul myself out of bed in the early morning hours. It’s barely sunrise, but I pull on my hiking shorts and a tank top, slip my feet into some well-worn Crocs, throw my hair into a ponytail, and, shoving my glasses on, stumble downstairs where our dog is huffing and puffing in excitement. It’s time for his daily walk. The hellish heat of Texas in the late summer necessitates this early morning foray into the neighborhood streets. I take this time to say whichever novena I have committed to that week and meditate on the many needs of my family and children. A peaceful time, it’s a way of showing love to my family. I pray fervently for them, and walk the dog so no one else has to.

Once home, I make sure my high-schooler is awake (always a joyous duty). It’s mid-August now, and school has started back up. Poor kiddo. I swallow my old lady vitamins and get ready for the day. A quick peruse in the freezer to see what our dinner options are, and then, grabbing some coffee, I drive my kiddo to school. Some prayers are said, and then it’s mostly quiet as he readies to face a day of books and discussion, camaraderie, and fun. I respect his need for a bit of silence. He’s an extrovert who loves some peace in the morning. It’s not personal, and it’s another way I can love him. I quietly drive, and decide not to pepper him with the eighty billion questions that come to mind.

When I was decades younger and had five kids under the age of seven, my day consisted of being bounced from one crisis to another. Somehow, every child got fed, read to, and played with. Meals were made, floors were vacuumed, laundry washed, and, if we were lucky, at the end of the day, my husband and I could grab a few moments before I was comatose. It was a loud, chaotic time. And, surprisingly, I wish I could go back and relive it for just one more day, when showing love seemed simpler somehow.

Now, after depositing my kiddo at school, I head home for my small(er) list of duties. My house is quiet when I get there. My time is my own, but not really. I have phone calls to make, areas to clean, grocery lists to update, and friends to check in on. I have my work-from-home job and my exercise-instructor job. But most of all? I have my adult children. And the way I show love to them has radically changed.

They have grown into remarkable young adults, some of whom live close by, some far away, and some still live at home. It’s a smorgasbord of needs, and I am here for it. What an honor it is now to be called upon for some help or to answer a question about recipes or cook times. To hear from my long-distance kids is a true joy. To know that they want to update me, get my opinion on something, or just hear how things are in our lives—it’s a different type of connection but no less loving than when they would pick dandelions with chubby fingers and thrust them at me, brimming with excitement. When my local kids plop down and want to chat, I am all ears. It is a privilege to continue to be an integral part of their world, and I know it. The love is palpable, and I soak it in.

The means and methods of loving our children morph and grow as they get older. But the substance of it? Never goes away. In fact, I feel just full to the brim and spilling over in love with all that my kids have become and overcome. I’m eager to see all that lies before them. I have become their biggest fan as I cheer them on, sometimes from a distance.

I am here for them. All of me, all the time. Whatever they need, whenever they ask. Just like our loving Father, who would never force himself upon us or interfere in our lives, parents of adult children are learning this new way of love. Just when we thought we couldn’t love them any more, or any differently, or in any other way, we find that we do. We find that love has a myriad of forms. And we learn every single one—meals, laundry, listening—even walking the dog. We are here for all of it.