Joy and grief Together - Empty Nesting

Last August, we helped Ethan – our only child – move into his dorm for his first year of college. 

It's a big milestone moment for any kid, but it felt like one of the most significant in my journey as a mother. 

On the one hand, it was exhilarating. 

Ethan embarked on a lengthy college selection process, which involved searching, applying, completing paperwork, attending auditions, facing doubts, experiencing rejection, celebrating acceptance, and enduring a lot of waiting.  By May,  he committed to the University of Florida with a Bright Futures scholarship in a musical theatre program that only accepted five (yes, 5) first-year students. My heart overflowed with gratitude because he was excited, happy, and full of hope.  

Simultaneously, it felt utterly devastating... like the slow, painful goodbye of our family of three as we knew it. 

I  can see in hindsight that my grieving began in the second half of his senior year. All the special "for the last time" senior year moments,  all the events and celebrations, were a reminder of the fleeting moments and traditions of his high school years. I could feel the clock ticking on the precious time we had left, and I felt increasingly teary. 

As the day drew closer, the heartbreak seeped into my chest with a crushing weight, and with it came an unexpected life review. 

I found myself replaying all the moments I wished I’d handled differently, the things I said too sharply, the ways I didn’t prepare him, and the places where I now see I could have shown up better. If only I could go back and redo some of it.

One day, over lunch, I apologized for my missteps and gave him space to share his experience. It struck me, sitting across from him, that this was one of life’s thresholds, the quiet places where relationships transform. In apologizing and listening, I realized that loving him now meant letting go of the version of him I’d been holding onto. By choosing repair over guilt, I gave both of us permission to evolve. I could stop trying to rewrite the past or even hold onto it and start showing up differently in the present. We could move from adult and child, to two humans learning how to be in a relationship in a new way. 

The day we moved him into his dorm went more easily and felt sweeter than I  had imagined. 

But the ride home felt especially long as the tears ran down my face. There were tears of both grief and happiness. You can hold both at the same time. 

Over that summer, I convinced myself that it wouldn't be a big adjustment since he had a very busy senior year and I barely saw him, right?  I figured I’d be fine. I had built a life and business outside of my child. 

While that was true, I had also poured my heart into nourishing, protecting, and worrying about him for 18 years. How many hours of my day were spent with him in my mind, factored into every decision? Even when he was busy with his life, he filled my awareness as I considered when and how he was eating, what he needed, where he was going, and when he'd be home. 

How was it possible that he was now living a life completely separate from me? 

No one fully explained how hard it would be to let go of the person who occupied so much space and time in my life, in my head, and in my heart  for so long. The very same space I sometimes resented not having when he was young, but now I was deeply grieving. 

It wasn't just him starting a new life. I was, too. 

When I woke up the first morning after getting home and walked by his empty (and shockingly clean) bedroom, I felt a new wave of grief. 

It was the same on that first trip to the grocery store when I stopped by the bananas,🍌 realizing I didn't have to put them in my cart unless I wanted them.

Those first few weeks were filled with feelings of loss and emptiness. I had to constantly remind myself that he wasn't coming in the door, that I didn't need to make him dinner, that I wouldn't know who he was with unless he decided to tell me. And he didn't call or text much. He was rightfully absorbed in his new life, making new friends. I felt such joy at how happy he was.  But I  missed regular contact terribly.  

And then, the days passed, and I emerged from my grief and began to adjust to this new phase of life. I was officially an empty nester.  But my nest would always be here for him to come back to anytime. 

And there were things I learned to appreciate. Like:

• Knowing where all my cups are. 🥤They no longer go missing.
• Not finding the washer full of wet clothes. 
• More peace, quiet, and space for myself. 
• More connection and quality time with Matt.
• More freedom to travel.
• A new opportunity to dream my own dream.
• more meaningful conversations when he called or came home. 

Yes, I had to empty the dishwasher now, but at least I  knew where everything was. 😂

Just when I felt I had adjusted, he came back home for the summer with an incredible paid internship. 

Cue joy and pride and excitement. Cue missing cups, less space, and less quiet. Cue more appreciation for my cooking, laughter, and fun weekends.

It was another adjustment. And then, it was time for him to return to school. Again. Except this time, he was driving and moving on his own. Without us. 

And I'm not sure if he'll be coming home next summer.  Or any summer. 

And there I was, equally ready for him to go back so I could reclaim my space and time, but also teary, emotional, and desperate to hang on a little longer.

Because, despite what they say, you can feel both at the same time. 

And I know I will absolutely adjust once again.  With all my cups in the cupboard. I get to create what I want this next phase to look like. 

And while I don't have any big lessons or points to make here, I'm writing to remind you that this cycle plays out in our lives. 

We open up and love, we hold on, and then we have to let go. It's brutiful (beautiful and painful). 

It's joy and grief together.