Ordering Packages to a Boarding School: What I Learned When My Daughter Asked Me to Stop
The box had thirty-two ounces of the spicy snacks she likes, a new phone charger, and a little packet of stickers I’d thrown in as a joke. I was at the UPS counter, handing over my card, when my phone buzzed. It was a text from my daughter, who was in her second semester at boarding school: “omg why is another package coming??? my friends think I’m getting special treatment lol.”
I stood there holding the receipt, suddenly feeling like someone who’d been speed-walking in the wrong direction for months.
When my daughter first went to boarding school, sending packages was the main way I coped. The dorm was four hours away. The phone calls were short—often just her walking between classes, telling me she couldn’t talk long. But a box, I could send. I’d go to the grocery store, buy the granola bars she liked, some of those little individual hummus cups, a pack of new socks, maybe a book I thought she’d enjoy. I’d tape it all up, write her name in big letters on the label, and drive to the post office. That hour of shopping and packing felt like being a parent in the way I knew how—taking care of her through supplies.
The school had rules, of course, but they were simple. No alcohol, no candles, no large appliances. The mailroom had limited hours, and packages took two or three days to arrive through the mail. I didn’t worry much about the rules because I was only sending snacks and small essentials. I figured that was safe.
The problem was the frequency. At first, it was every other week. Then it became weekly. I’d hear her mention that she lost her earbuds—and I’d order her new ones. She’d mention she was tired of the dining hall food—and I’d send a box of ramen and those pouches of pre-cooked rice you can microwave. It felt responsive. It felt like I was still paying attention.
But I wasn’t paying attention to the right thing. Around February, I realized I had no idea what she actually needed. She’d stopped telling me when things ran out because she knew I’d just order more. Once, she mentioned she needed a new rain jacket because the one she had was too thin. I immediately started searching online. Then I caught myself—she was seventeen. She had her own debit card. She had access to a computer. Why was I the one shopping?
That’s when I started to see the pattern clearly. The packages weren’t for her. They were for me. The act of sending them was a way of staying involved, a way of feeling like I was still useful to her daily life. But what I was actually doing was taking away the small, mundane tasks that were part of her learning to live on her own. Dealing with a cold dining hall lunch or losing a pair of earbuds is not a crisis. It’s just a mild inconvenience. And boarding school was the perfect place for her to handle those inconveniences herself.
She had the middle-of-semester talk with me, not a dramatic confrontation but a quiet moment during a Sunday call. “I love getting stuff,” she said. “But I don’t need it every week. The kids in my hall get like one package a month from their parents, and mine show up constantly. Also, I have six bags of those spicy snacks under my bed and I’m tired of them.”
I asked her what she wanted instead. She said she wanted to make her own list. She said that when she needed something, she would text me a link, and I could order it, but she’d also start ordering some things herself. We agreed on a rhythm: she would send me a list once a month, and I’d send a single box. If something was urgent, we’d talk about it, and she could either order it online herself or, if it was a total emergency, I’d overnight it.
The first month after that conversation, I didn’t send anything. It felt strange. I kept opening the Amazon app and putting things in my cart, then closing it. I realized how much I’d been using shopping as a way to check in on her. Instead, I started checking in by text. “How are you feeling today?” turned out to be a more useful question than “What do you need?”
That spring, something notable happened. She texted me that a package she ordered from a clothing store was marked “delivered” but she hadn’t gotten it. Her first instinct was to ask me to call the school. I said, “The mailroom is on campus. You can actually walk there in five minutes. Why don’t you go ask them in person?” She was silent for a second, then said, “Oh. Yeah.” She went, they found the box in a weird bin, and she got her jacket. Or whatever it was. I don’t remember the item. I remember the feeling, though, of not having to solve it for her.
This is not to say packages are bad. They are one of the few tangible ways to show love when you live far apart. A care package on exam week is a genuinely good thing. Snacks from home do taste better than the dining hall’s. The guideline that worked for us was simple: if I’m sending more than she’s asking for, something is off.
There’s a practical side to all this, too. Every boarding school mailroom is different. Ours had restrictions on certain food items, and some dorms had limited storage space. Adding snacks or supplies that she couldn’t easily store created waste rather than comfort. A student who gets three boxes a week has to spend time walking to the mailroom, waiting in line, and then figuring out where to put all of it. That’s not a gift. That’s an errand.
I found that the most useful things to send were items she couldn’t get easily herself, or things that were time-sensitive—a birthday present from her grandmother, a special sweatshirt, a printer cartridge for the one assignment that needed a hard copy. Those tiny gestures meant more because they were rare.
We’re heading into her senior year now. I still send boxes, but they’re small ones, marked with the month. She sends me lists that read like grocery orders: “two bags of coffee, that lotion, the black leggings.” I don’t add surprises anymore. I tried once, two months ago—threw in a little book I thought she’d like. When she called, she didn’t mention it. I asked about it, and she said she hadn’t opened it yet because she was busy. That was a small sting, but also a useful one. The box was about me, not her.
Next year she’ll be off to college, which will mean new rules, new mailrooms, and a new rhythm of care packages. I’ll probably make the same mistake again, sending too much at first, checking the tracking number at 10 p.m., wondering if she’d eaten a real dinner. But I think I’ll catch myself sooner this time. The last box I sent had exactly the four things she asked for. I taped it shut without adding anything extra. It was a small act of restraint, but it felt like progress. She texted me when it arrived: “Got it.” I didn’t reply right away. The mailroom will hold packages for a few days before returning them. I’ve got time.
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