"And then came the guilt." It's a no-win situation. Stay in the sadness and people worry about you. Start enjoying the quiet and you wonder what kind of mother does that.
You let the guilt and the relief both be true at the same time instead of picking one. Harder to write than it looks.
And naming it the way you did, that's not the end of something. That's usually where it starts.
Thank you so much for this! Both live at the same time and it can be difficult to describe that feeling adequately. I am very glad you felt that. The guilt… that is the one that haunts me the most. Why do we feel guilty for wanting more? I am on a personal quest to change that within myself.
A beautiful and moving piece. I saw myself in so many of your words. My 23 yr old daughter is “back home” for the summer and I am getting to know her as the young woman she has become and learning to co-exist with her in new and familiar ways.
Thank you, Gabriella! I appreciate your feedback and I am glad that it resonates. The new relationship with our girls is wonderful and strange but I am embracing it.
Barb, the missing puzzle piece over the heart gives this essay a shape that stays with the reader. You name empty nest as more than a single departure; it is the nervous system learning, again and again, how to love someone who comes home, fills the house, leaves again, and remains fully alive in you afterward. I appreciate how honestly you hold the guilt of liking the quiet beside the ache of missing Lily, because that is where the second chapter of motherhood becomes so human: pride, grief, relief, longing, and becoming all sharing the same chest. Thank you for giving language to what it means to remain a mother while also reclaiming Barbara.
Kevin, “remains fully alive in you afterward” — I’m sitting with that line. That’s exactly it. She’s not gone, she’s just not here right now, and my body still hasn’t fully learned the difference.
The guilt-of-liking-the-quiet part is the one people don’t say out loud. Thank you for naming it back to me instead of skipping past it.
Barb, I’m grateful you received it that way. “She’s not gone, she’s just not here right now” says so much about the body’s lag in seasons of love and change, because the heart can understand a new chapter before the nervous system knows how to live inside it. I appreciate your honesty about the quiet, too, because naming that relief does not lessen the love; it tells the truth about becoming a whole person while still being fully a mother. Thank you for writing with such clarity about the parts of midlife and motherhood that many people feel before they know how to say.
I feel all of this so deeply, Barb. But especially what you said about the heartbreak each and every time they leave. Even when you begin to make peace with the new rhythm of it all and begin to enjoy the quiet and the time to find yourself again. Those goodbyes are always hard. But I suppose that’s a beautiful thing too. That pain is only there because of the deep love and connection that exists. XO
Laurie, that’s the part I keep relearning — the peace and the heartbreak aren’t sequential, they’re simultaneous. I make peace with the rhythm, and then they leave again, and it still knocks the wind out of me a little. Thank you for sitting in that with me. Thank you for reading and I’m glad that you could relate to this.
Enjoying each other’s company like mature adults — that’s the stage of the parent-child relationship I enjoy the most. Not to mention all the good things my husband and I get to do now, at our own pace🖤
Viktoria, that’s exactly where I’m headed and I can feel it coming. The mature-adult-company stage. I’m not fully there yet, but Bob and I are already finding our own pace again, and I love that you named it as something to look forward to, not just something to survive. 🤍
Goodness this made me cry. My youngest daughter just graduated from high school and will be moving 8 hours away in the next couple of months. I’ve missed her for some years now, since she met her high school sweetheart, who I’m almost certain she’ll marry. Sometimes I resent him. But I love how he loves her. So some of what you’re describing I’ve already felt to some extent. But not the way it’ll be when she actually leaves. She is love and light and life and everything (and more) I could’ve imagined her being. She’s saved me. She’s been mine. And I am truly struggling to imagine life without her here. Even though she’s hardly ever home these days, she’s here. Close by. I am terrified of her leaving. They say it’s just another chapter, a new exciting chapter, when they leave. It doesn’t feel like that. It feels like a bittersweet ending to an entire book. There’s such a finality to their childhood ending. I would give anything for her to be little again, even for a day.
Thank you for sharing your daughter with me. She sounds like an amazing young lady with a great future ahead of her. I could feel your love jumping off the page as you wrote about her upcoming departure for college. It will be tough, at least for a little bit, but there are great things to look forward to after the storm passes. It truly is a bittersweet time. Hang in there!
Barb, I think it's wonderful that you feel the absence of your daughter Lily.
I didn't go away to college. My parents abruptly decided that my Dad would retire early from the post office and they high tailed it to Florida. That left me, as a college Sophmore in NYC, to figure out how to afford school and living there. I ended up working full-time at night for the University to pay for school and a place to live. They created the empty nest instead of vice-versa.
I can imagine a little guilt can creep in when you also do enjoy the quiet, but you've done your job as a Mom and you now each get a chance to decide what life is next.
"And then came the guilt." It's a no-win situation. Stay in the sadness and people worry about you. Start enjoying the quiet and you wonder what kind of mother does that.
You let the guilt and the relief both be true at the same time instead of picking one. Harder to write than it looks.
And naming it the way you did, that's not the end of something. That's usually where it starts.
Thank you so much for this! Both live at the same time and it can be difficult to describe that feeling adequately. I am very glad you felt that. The guilt… that is the one that haunts me the most. Why do we feel guilty for wanting more? I am on a personal quest to change that within myself.
"Both things are true at once" — I keep coming back to that. The pride and the grief in the same chest on the same day.
You named something I didn't have language for until I read this. The puzzle image is going to stay with me.
Thank you so much. I appreciate your feedback and letting me know what stood out to you.
A beautiful and moving piece. I saw myself in so many of your words. My 23 yr old daughter is “back home” for the summer and I am getting to know her as the young woman she has become and learning to co-exist with her in new and familiar ways.
Thank you, Gabriella! I appreciate your feedback and I am glad that it resonates. The new relationship with our girls is wonderful and strange but I am embracing it.
Barb, the missing puzzle piece over the heart gives this essay a shape that stays with the reader. You name empty nest as more than a single departure; it is the nervous system learning, again and again, how to love someone who comes home, fills the house, leaves again, and remains fully alive in you afterward. I appreciate how honestly you hold the guilt of liking the quiet beside the ache of missing Lily, because that is where the second chapter of motherhood becomes so human: pride, grief, relief, longing, and becoming all sharing the same chest. Thank you for giving language to what it means to remain a mother while also reclaiming Barbara.
Kevin, “remains fully alive in you afterward” — I’m sitting with that line. That’s exactly it. She’s not gone, she’s just not here right now, and my body still hasn’t fully learned the difference.
The guilt-of-liking-the-quiet part is the one people don’t say out loud. Thank you for naming it back to me instead of skipping past it.
Barb, I’m grateful you received it that way. “She’s not gone, she’s just not here right now” says so much about the body’s lag in seasons of love and change, because the heart can understand a new chapter before the nervous system knows how to live inside it. I appreciate your honesty about the quiet, too, because naming that relief does not lessen the love; it tells the truth about becoming a whole person while still being fully a mother. Thank you for writing with such clarity about the parts of midlife and motherhood that many people feel before they know how to say.
I feel all of this so deeply, Barb. But especially what you said about the heartbreak each and every time they leave. Even when you begin to make peace with the new rhythm of it all and begin to enjoy the quiet and the time to find yourself again. Those goodbyes are always hard. But I suppose that’s a beautiful thing too. That pain is only there because of the deep love and connection that exists. XO
Laurie, that’s the part I keep relearning — the peace and the heartbreak aren’t sequential, they’re simultaneous. I make peace with the rhythm, and then they leave again, and it still knocks the wind out of me a little. Thank you for sitting in that with me. Thank you for reading and I’m glad that you could relate to this.
Enjoying each other’s company like mature adults — that’s the stage of the parent-child relationship I enjoy the most. Not to mention all the good things my husband and I get to do now, at our own pace🖤
Viktoria, that’s exactly where I’m headed and I can feel it coming. The mature-adult-company stage. I’m not fully there yet, but Bob and I are already finding our own pace again, and I love that you named it as something to look forward to, not just something to survive. 🤍
Goodness this made me cry. My youngest daughter just graduated from high school and will be moving 8 hours away in the next couple of months. I’ve missed her for some years now, since she met her high school sweetheart, who I’m almost certain she’ll marry. Sometimes I resent him. But I love how he loves her. So some of what you’re describing I’ve already felt to some extent. But not the way it’ll be when she actually leaves. She is love and light and life and everything (and more) I could’ve imagined her being. She’s saved me. She’s been mine. And I am truly struggling to imagine life without her here. Even though she’s hardly ever home these days, she’s here. Close by. I am terrified of her leaving. They say it’s just another chapter, a new exciting chapter, when they leave. It doesn’t feel like that. It feels like a bittersweet ending to an entire book. There’s such a finality to their childhood ending. I would give anything for her to be little again, even for a day.
Thank you for sharing your daughter with me. She sounds like an amazing young lady with a great future ahead of her. I could feel your love jumping off the page as you wrote about her upcoming departure for college. It will be tough, at least for a little bit, but there are great things to look forward to after the storm passes. It truly is a bittersweet time. Hang in there!
Barb, I think it's wonderful that you feel the absence of your daughter Lily.
I didn't go away to college. My parents abruptly decided that my Dad would retire early from the post office and they high tailed it to Florida. That left me, as a college Sophmore in NYC, to figure out how to afford school and living there. I ended up working full-time at night for the University to pay for school and a place to live. They created the empty nest instead of vice-versa.
I can imagine a little guilt can creep in when you also do enjoy the quiet, but you've done your job as a Mom and you now each get a chance to decide what life is next.
Beautifully said!