Ash is officially S.H.I.T. now.
So Happy I’m Twenty-one.
He laughed when I said it. You know, the kind where you know he’s humoring me a bit.
Because twenty-one is a strange number.
It doesn’t announce itself loudly. It just sits there, solid and grown. A number that quietly informs you your child is no longer becoming an adult — he already is one. And suddenly, all those years of counting candles and cutting cakes feel like they were leading here.
Ash is 21 today.
This birthday hit me harder than I expected. Not in a dramatic, sobbing-into-a-tissue way. More like a slow, creeping ache. The kind that sneaks up when you realise you’re no longer at the centre of his world — and that’s exactly how it should be.
This past year, I’ve watched him grow in ways that don’t come with applause.
He doesn’t need me as much now. Doesn’t ask for help the way he used to. Makes his own calls. Figures things out quietly. And while I’m incredibly proud of the man he’s becoming, there’s a small part of me that still misses being the person he needed for everything.
Parenting teens is funny like that. You spend years teaching them independence… and then feel oddly lost when it finally works.
One of the biggest lessons this year came disguised as sweat, nerves, and a looming enlistment date.
He was meant to enlist earlier — in May — because he failed his IPPT. And instead of sulking or blaming the system (which, honestly, I might have done), he trained. Hard. Relentlessly. And on the very last possible attempt before enlistment, he passed.
Of course, it couldn’t be straightforward. Midway through the push-up station, the counting machine malfunctioned. Manual counting kicked in. Fewer reps registered than usual. Zero buffer left.
So he ran the 2.4km like his life depended on it.
Passed.
And casually threw in a personal best, just to keep things interesting.
I don’t think he knows how much that moment meant to me. Not the result — the resolve.
Then came enlistment. He didn’t ask for it, but he was posted to Commandos for BMT. On the first day, I could’ve sworn I saw his eyes glisten a little. Fear. Of the training. Of the unknown. Of whether he was cut out for this.
I felt it too. Deeply. I just had the advantage of pretending to be calm. But he went anyway. Endured the ten weeks. Finished what he started.
And just when we thought we could breathe again, he went on to the Basic Airborne Course — which involved jumping out of a perfectly good plane with a parachute. The wifey and I smiled bravely. Then went home and aged about ten years.
But he did it. He landed. He walked away. And something in him shifted.
The hard work isn’t done yet. He still has over four months of tougher training ahead to earn his red beret, and plenty of unknowns waiting. But if this year has taught me anything, it’s that he has grit — real grit — even when he doesn’t see it himself.
Outside of all that seriousness, he’s still our boy.
Cheekier. Witty. Occasionally trolling his sister like it’s an Olympic sport. But also talking to her more — real conversations, shared jokes, easy laughter. Watching their relationship evolve has been one of the unexpected gifts of this stage.
And somewhere in between all the training schedules, the banter, and the late-night conversations, he became a young man.
Twenty-one means he can vote, drink, make life decisions — and yes, officially be S.H.I.T. But while he’s celebrating that freedom, I’m learning to loosen my grip.
This is the age where parenting quietly shifts gears.
I don’t get to fix things anymore. Or be the first call. Or swoop in. I’m learning to sit in the passenger seat, hands off the wheel, trusting that we’ve given him enough to navigate the road ahead.
Letting go doesn’t come with fireworks. It’s subtle. It looks like not being asked. Like watching from the sidelines. Like realising your child’s life is getting bigger — and your role, smaller.
But here’s the thing.
In the small moments — the random chats, the teasing, the way he still comes home and just exists with us — I’m reminded that we’re still needed. Just differently. Softer. Quieter. But still here.
And maybe that’s okay.
Ash, if you ever stumble across this one day:
You don’t need to have everything figured out.
You don’t need to be fearless.
You just need to keep showing up — the way you always have, even when you were scared.
We are endlessly proud of you. Not just for the milestones you’ve ticked off this year, but for the man you’re becoming — thoughtful, determined, and quietly strong.
Happy 21st, my boy.
Go be S.H.I.T.
So Happy. So Human. So very you.
And no matter how far you go, or how grown you get, there will always be a place here — where you can land, rest, and be held.
Always.
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