Lori Ruppert

When I participated in the Brain Tattoo exercise and was asked to identify a word or phrase that told my story, two simple words emerged: Step Out. At first glance, it seems straightforward. But for me, those two words hold years of love, uncertainty, guilt, growth, and learning what it means to let go. My husband and I have one child, a son. Our family was close. Home was safe, predictable, and comfortable. When our son was in his mid-twenties, we faced a difficult decision. He was still living at home. The year prior, he experienced a difficult breakup when his fiancee ended their relationship. He had always been a somewhat reserved person, and the loss shook his confidence. As parents, our instinct was to protect him. We wanted to make things easier and shield him from additional hardship. Yet we also knew that growth rarely happens within the walls of comfort. My husband and I made what felt like an impossible decision: we encouraged him to move out and begin building a life of his own. We didn't simply tell him to leave. We supported him through the process, helped him find a home, and assisted with the down payment. We wanted him to know that independence did not mean abandonment. Still, carrying out that decision was one of the hardest things I've ever done as a parent. That was the original meaning behind Step Out. I was asking my son to step out of the familiar, step out of dependence, and step out into a future that he could create for himself. What I didn't realize at the time was that I was also being asked to step out. As the years passed, my son adapted to independent living, but not without some challenges. Today, at 30, he manages his own home. Many of the things I worried about never materialized. In so many ways, he proved that he was capable all along. But another challenge emerged. While he achieved independence, he continued to struggle with finding a meaningful relationship. After the heartbreak of his broken engagement, he has experienced his share of disappointments and rejections. As a mother, watching someone you love experience loneliness is painful because it's one problem you cannot solve for them. And that is where the phrase evolved. For years, I found myself replaying the same question in my mind: "Did I do the right thing?" and sometimes the question became even more personal: "Is this somehow my fault?" Did encouraging him to leave home before he felt completely ready contribute to his struggles? Did I push too hard? Should I have done something differently? The truth is that every parent carries some version of these questions. We replay decisions, revisit crossroads, and wonder how different choices might have altered the outcome. Over time, I've come to realize that my guilt was another comfort zone. It allowed me to believe I had more control than I actually did. The harder truth is that our children write their own stories. We influence them, support them, equip them, and love them, but we cannot determine every chapter. Their successes are not entirely because of us, and their struggles are not entirely because of us either. Today, "Step Out" has become a message for both of us. I encourage my son to keep stepping out—to try new experiences, meet new people, take chances, and remain open to connection despite disappointment. Growth still lives just outside his comfort zone. At the same time, I remind myself to step out as well. To step out of guilt. To step out of self-blame. To step out of the belief that a mother's job is to fix everything. Instead, I choose to trust. I choose to believe that his story is still unfolding, that independence was not a mistake, and that growth often takes longer than we expect. My Brain Tattoo is Step Out because it reminds me that courage isn't a one-time act. It's a lifelong practice. First, it was the courage to let my son leave home. Now, it's the courage to let go of the guilt and trust his journey—and my own.