I’ve cried on the last day of school for as long as I can remember—both as a kid and as an adult. As a parent, though, it has become an annual reminder that childhood moves far faster than any of us are ready for, and that’s both heartbreaking and exactly as it should be.
I was a kid who loved school. September was my jam. I loved (and frankly, still love) blank notebooks, new pencils and fresh starts. Given the choice, I would pick the first day of school over the last day of school every time. (Yes, I know I’m the odd one out on this front.)
I cried on the last day of school every year. I didn't want the break from my friends, from my routine, from learning new things. I wouldn't say I dreaded it—I loved summer and, with three siblings and a neighbourhood full of kids to play with, my days were downright 1990s idyllic—but I mourned the end of a grade. And if I loved my teacher in a particular year or semester? Forget it.
Things got a little better when I started working at summer camp because there was nothing better than spending my days doing crafts, playing capture the flag, guiding river walks and working with some of my best friends. But I was always happy when September rolled back around again.
Apparently, I never outgrew that.
The Last Day Hits Differently Now
Some things never change, I suppose, because as a parent, the last day of school just ruins me every year.
It's not that I don't love July and August with my girls, Sophie and Juliette, now 14 and 11. Slower days, sleeping in (for them), no lunches to pack, afternoons at the community pool, trying different ice cream flavours every week…it's magic-making. But before any of that can begin, we have to get through the last day of school, and every year, it's the starkest reminder of just how much they've grown and changed in the blink of an eye.
To be fair, I suppose I’m partly to blame for my own last-day-of-school sadness.
I'm one of those parents who religiously takes first-day and last-day photos of my kids. The standalone shots are lovely, but when I line them up side by side and see how much they've changed over the course of a single school year, I end up a blubbering mess. Last year, when Sophie graduated from Grade 8 and I created a collage of her first day of junior kindergarten beside her last day of elementary school…well, I’m still not sure I’ve fully recovered.
I also started a tradition when the girls finished daycare that was, looking back, emotionally reckless.
Every year, I ask their teachers to sign a copy of Oh, the Places You'll Go! by Dr. Seuss. The idea is that, when they graduate from high school, I'll gift them their book, filled with notes from every educator who has been part of their journey.
Now that I'm 11 and eight years into this project, respectively, the books are getting full. Rereading comments from teachers who knew them when they were basically toddlers is like a throat-punch to the heart. A good, happy throat-punch, but a throat-punch, nonetheless.
Of course, I'm doing this to myself. Nobody is forcing me to make photo collages or preserve 11 years' worth of handwritten notes. But I wouldn't trade those traditions for anything. They force me to stop long enough to notice what's changing before another school year slips by.
The Hardest Part is the Best Part
Please don't get me wrong. I take every opportunity to celebrate the women they're becoming—to push them, guide them and applaud all of their accomplishments. I'm so proud of the young adults they're shaping up to be. I would never want them to stay in one place.
But there's an inherent grief that I don't think I ever expected when I became a parent. It's like the world's worst-kept secret, because maybe if we talked too much about it, no one would do this to themselves: When you're raising kids, your heart somehow manages to swell and break at the exact same time, often hour by hour, and there's not a thing you can do about it.
This summer also marks the start of a new chapter for both of my girls. Sophie will be doing a leader-in-training program at summer camp in the hopes of landing a camp job next year, while Jules, my little mermaid, is taking her Bronze Star on the way to becoming a lifeguard.
Maybe that's exactly why I've been thinking so much about making the most of the time we do have together. Here are some of the ideas I’ve been batting around, to mark the end of this year’s academic chapter.
Five Easy Ways to Celebrate the End of School
You don't need a Pinterest-worthy party or an elaborate bucket list to make the transition into summer feel special. Sometimes the smallest traditions are the ones kids remember long after they've forgotten what was on their report card.
Go out for a “we made it” meal or treat. Whether it's ice cream, milkshakes or dinner on a patio, mark the end of the school year with something everyone looks forward to.
Ask everyone to share one favourite memory from the school year. Around the dinner table or during a walk, take turns talking about the moments you'll remember most. You might be surprised by the answers.
Let your kids plan the first day of summer (that’s next Monday for many of us!). Give them a few options and a reasonable budget and let them choose the adventure. It gives them ownership over the season before it fills up with camps and commitments.
Start one new weekly tradition for the summer. Friday night bike rides, a weekly pick-up baseball game with neighbourhood families or backyard movie nights—choose something simple that you can come back to every week, and maybe even every year.
Celebrate who they became, not just what they achieved. Report cards matter, but so do kindness, resilience, new friendships and trying something new that scared them. Those victories deserve celebrating, too.
Maybe We Get More Summers Than We Think
There's a saying that you only get 18 summers with your kids.
Lately, I've been thinking about that, and I don't know if I really believe it.
I understand what people mean. And honestly, by the time they're tweens and teenagers, you don't even get all 18 of those summers anymore. They start making plans with friends, taking on jobs and building lives of their own. Little by little, they start needing you differently.
But that doesn't mean those summers stop.
I'm 44 years old, and my parents still factor into my summer plans every year. Sure, there were years when I was travelling or living farther from home and we didn't see each other as much, but now we plan the summer around our cottage week with Nonna and Papa in early August. There are also weekend visits (complete with cousin sleepovers), Blue Jays games to go to and “adventures” (aka day trips) whenever Papa decides we all need a little boost.
The summers look different now, but the tradition of coming back together hasn't disappeared.
So I guess what I'm saying is that, yes, things change. They have to. They're supposed to. But take the sadness with the new things that come with a little more maturity and a little more independence.
You're not holding hands to keep them from running into the street anymore, but if they hold your hand as a teenager—even if just for a minute—it's because they want to. Not because they have to—but because they choose to.
I don't mean to turn the excitement of the last day of school into a melodrama (though I think I pretty much always did, to be honest. Give me a fresh start every day of the week). But endings—even happy ones—are a harder sell for me, and on that I know I’m not alone.
Then again, maybe that's because they're proof that everything is unfolding exactly as it’s meant to.
A version of this article appeared in a 2026 issue of the ParentsCanada The Full Story newsletter. Sign up for free here.
