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My daughter is preparing to make final vows as a Catholic sister, and though I’m a devout Catholic, I am still grieving that reality. It’s one of the hardest things I’ve had to deal with in my three decades of motherhood. In many ways, I’ve come to realize, she is no longer mine.

Nearly a third of the women who took the final step to officially become a Catholic sister in 2014 reported that their mothers discouraged them, according to the Center for Applied Research in the Apostolate at Georgetown University. That compares with only 11 percent of the men who became United States priests last year. There’s just something about the mother-daughter bond you want to guard, something that feels destined and precious. There may even be a suspicion among us Baby Boomer moms that we’ll enjoy fuller access to grandchildren through a daughter than a son.

My daughter made her temporary vows as a Catholic sister on Mother’s Day of 2012. It was a beautiful ceremony — not unlike witnessing a child’s wedding — but in the shadow of my happiness was a slinking sense of loss. I’m a planner, and I was not able to plan the event. I hadn’t been consulted or briefed on any of the little choices that give a sense of ownership to a mother of the bride.

Most of the time, I’m overjoyed that my daughter found her calling in life by joining the Handmaids of the Heart of Jesus, an orthodox Roman Catholic community whose members wear full habits. I believe that this is the vocation God designed for her and that it fulfills the deepest longings of her heart. I see the profound effect she has on the people she serves.

But I struggle with the limited contact. She does not have an email address or a cellphone; I typically communicate through snail mail or the mother superior, who has become her new mother. We will never celebrate Christmas together again. (She comes home one week every summer and for a long Thanksgiving weekend.) And I no longer call her by the name I gave her at birth, Barbara; she has asked me to use the religious name she chose, Sister Mary Joseph.

I’ve learned that grief isn’t linear. Letting go is not getting easier incrementally. This year I’ve faced a number of challenges, and more than usual I find myself craving conversations with my daughter, the firstborn who always got me, who read my moods so naturally when we lived under the same roof.

I’ve also learned that being in proximity to her can make me feel the loneliest. If we’re attending the same wedding, she’s not able to pull up a chair and gab for half an hour. She is expected, as a Handmaid, to be available to the entire gathering and provide for them the presence of Mary, mother of Jesus — tending to the flower girl, answering a teenager’s questions about her habit, assisting a frail grandparent.

Intellectually, I understand and support the Handmaids’ mission and the policies that help bring it about. And yet, some days my heart lags behind. Sometimes I don’t feel like offering the politically correct response when questioned about Sister Mary Joseph’s new life.

Adding to this struggle is the self-imposed pressure to be holy because my daughter is a nun. If she is big enough to give her entire life, how can I be so small?

I relate to other parents who have handed over their children to a higher cause such as mission work or military service. My daughter’s chosen path is a mystery to most Americans. Many are surprised to learn that about 100 women make their final vows as Catholic sisters every year. They are generous, compassionate women — and they are real people whose moms miss them.

One morning two years ago, I was saying a tearful goodbye to my daughter in the laundry room. I told her how much I would miss her and that giving her to the Lord had been one of the most difficult things I had ever had to do. Then I felt a surge of strength, looked her in the eye and added that I wouldn’t trade it for anything because I know she is exactly where the Lord wants her to be. In that moment, I experienced such grace.

My daughter already offered her yes to this vocation. I’m doing my best to offer mine.