The Nest Is Empty
A stunningly beautiful and bittersweet 28.5-year chapter closed this week, and I’m feeling as lost, grateful, scared, hopeful, and untethered as you might imagine.
I find myself oddly reflecting on all the packing I've done over nearly three decades—beginning with my first hospital bag in 1997, and the three that followed. All those snack bags, lunch boxes, and backpacks. The bat bags, dance bags, and suitcases for mission trips and summer camps. Eventually, the boxes for U-Hauls and car trunks.
sigh
Now, the house echoes in a way it never has before—except possibly in that brief, fleeting moment right before we brought our first newborn home. Before the Cheerios and sippy cups, Legos and Barbies, the chicken nuggets and french fries, the tears over girl drama and being cut from the team, and the rollercoaster of every birthday party—the ones I hosted, attended, or my child wasn't invited to. I'm thinking about all of it.
Years ago, I was told the goal of motherhood was to launch these little humans out into the world. We are supposed to raise adults, not toddlers with larger shoes, after all. But when you're a stay-at-home mom—an identity tattered and fortified by carpool duty, meal prep, sibling refereeing, PTA meetings, and 10,000 loads of laundry—the act of letting go feels less like a natural evolution and more like an existential free fall. Especially after 28 years, which is the academic equivalent of earning five doctorates in cleaning Goldfish crackers out of car seats.
I launched my first "bird" from the nest ten years ago, and I've learned that parenting doesn't end just because you no longer share a roof. It simply changes—in ways that are surprising, beautiful, and sometimes difficult. The questions evolve, too: from "Why is the sky blue?" to "Do you like her, Mom? Because I think she's the one." They shift from "If a turtle loses its shell, is it naked or homeless?" to "How many exemptions should I claim on my W-4?" or "What's the best way to defrost a chicken?" I could write an entire book on the evolution of their questions.
But here's the thing—underneath the ache, there is beauty. And you don't find it by shaming yourself for grief or pretending enthusiasm for "empty nesting." I'm finding beauty in noticing my voice, no longer drowned out by the Disney Channel or sibling bickering. I'm reminding myself that I am allowed—required, even—to grieve. I can and do stand in their empty bedrooms and feel every single feeling that grief brings. And I am allowing myself to consider with excitement all the possibilities of what might be next. Sprinkled over all of it is just a pinch of pride—I did shepherd four human beings from fish sticks to FAFSA and beyond, after all.
Now, I get to wonder—who am I, aside from my children's chauffeur and head chef? I don't have a complete answer yet. I'm finding it comes piecemeal, and I'm listening intently with anticipation and a bit of excitement. I trust that, in time, this new season will have its quiet miracles: more room, more light, and more clarity.
And to my oldest son, the answer is yes—we love her and can't wait for her to officially be a part of our family.
(Dear Reader, consider that last sentence foreshadowing for my next essay: my firstborn gets married.)
