There’s a live camera streaming from a bald eagle nest in Big Bear, California, and I’ve been watching it like it’s the most gripping show on Earth. And what started as a “just-checking-in” curiosity has become a full-blown emotional investment. Lowkey obsession. Spiritual practice. Therapy via talons.

The parents, Jackie and Shadow, welcomed three eaglets in early March, but one perished in a bitter winter storm, so now it’s just the two littles, Gizmo and Sunny.

I even donated to enter the Eaglet-Naming contest last month… though sadly, none of my name suggestions (Sage, Liberty, Sam) got a majority vote from the third graders of Big Bear Valley. They get to decide because third grade is when California kiddos learn about eagles.

There’s just something about it—something in the quiet rhythm of it all—that pulls me in. Jackie and Shadow are two of the most devoted, badass bird parents I’ve ever seen. They feed, they shield, they take turns standing guard like sentries of the sky, they get pooped on, they get flap-slapped. They don’t complain. They don’t get PTO. Through storms and wind and cold, they are always there. Every damn day.

And so, I tune in to check on their family every damn day. Not out of duty, but because it brings me peace. I love watching these two awkward, fluffy chicks growing stronger and braver each day. Their tiny, clumsy wing-flaps turning into something that looks a little like flight now. The slow unfolding of instinct, the choreography of care.

And yesterday, on Mother’s Day, it hit me: this isn’t just about eagles. It’s about parenting. It’s about teaching. It’s about what it means to commit to raising someone or something into its next form—even knowing you will eventually have to let them go.

I’ve watched these two eaglets go from barely lifting their heads to flapping like they’re this close to launching themselves off the edge. They’ve spent weeks hopping around the nest like feathered toddlers on a sugar high, strengthening wings that don’t yet know how to hold them.

There’s been sibling drama, of course—some beak nudging, some shoving, some “get your face off my fish chunk” energy. But mostly, it’s been a steady evolution.

Jackie and Shadow? They don’t hover. They guide. They feed, they shade, they stay close—but not controlling. They don’t force it. They just trust the process.

And honestly, that part wrecks me a little.

Because it’s not that different from being a teacher, or a bonus parent, or someone who’s had to learn that showing love doesn’t mean doing the whole damn flight plan for them.

You show up.
You care deeply.
You try not to micromanage.
You know they have to fall before they fly.
You hold space even when you can’t hold them.

Some days I watch the nest and think, This is nature in its purest form.

Other days I think, This is basically my 4th period class.

We teach. We protect. We hand over snacks and guidance and mini pep talks, and then we step back, hoping we’ve done enough to help them trust their wings.

And when they finally fledge—when they leap from the only place they’ve ever known—we’re not there to catch them. We’re there to witness them.

On Mother’s Day, while Instagram was full of florals and filter-perfect tributes, Jen and I ended our candle-making brunchfest watching Jackie and Shadow do what they always do—feed, guard, guide. No big celebration for them. No spa day for them. Just instinct and love in action.

And I felt it—that subtle ache that comes from witnessing devotion without spectacle. From watching two beings pour themselves into raising the next generation, knowing full well that the whole point is for them to leave.

That’s the part that guts me in the best way. Because I know that feeling. As a teacher. As a bonus parent. As someone who’s spent years nurturing kids, students, friendships, dreams—things that were never meant to stay in the nest forever.

The older I get, the more I understand that motherhood, teaching, mentorship—whatever you want to call it—is less about holding on and more about preparing yourself to let go with grace.

And the letting go doesn’t happen all at once. It happens in flaps. In stretches. In little hop-practices toward the edge. It happens in phases, like an emotional molting.

And yes, they’ll leave the nest. But they might circle back. They might perch nearby. They might scream for snacks from a tree just ten feet away. That part is real too.

So I’ll keep watching. Not because I want to hold them back—but because I want to honor the moment they take flight.

Because this isn’t just about eagles. It’s about any of us who raise and release. The ones who show up, day after day, knowing we won’t always be needed in the same way. The ones who love hard enough to say: Go. Fly. You’ve got this.

Because whether it’s feathers or final exams, the work is the same: help them grow, watch them leap, and whisper, “You’re ready.” Whether it’s a student, a kiddo we care for, or a fluffy bird on the edge of the nest, we don’t always get to know where they’ll land—we just trust they were paying attention when it counted.

And if you want to fall in love too, here’s the live cam. The eaglets are huge now. Still flapping. Almost ready.