This post might not be original because I know many parents have shared similar stories about the empty nest when kids go off to college or university, but here’s my perspective. Even though it’s a common experience, the feelings are still deeply personal each time a parent goes through it.
From the time my children were born, I prepared for each milestone through weary eyes. Their first steps, the first day of school, the teenage years, graduations — it all seems like so long ago, but also just like yesterday. Each milestone came with its own mixture of pride, joy, and a little bit of heartache.
As each child left the nest, there was a sense of pride and a sense of accomplishment, but nothing prepared me for the moment my youngest packed up and left for college.
It wasn’t just the end of summer, or another school year starting — it was the end of an era in our home. For so many years, my days revolved around being “mom.” Making meals, helping with homework, rides to activities, late-night talks, endless sleepovers, and the hum of life that children bring into a house. Three years ago this September, that noise quieted.
The truth is, letting go is both beautiful and painful. I have to continually remind myself that this is exactly what we raise our children for; to grow wings and step into their own lives. Still, knowing that doesn’t erase the ache when you shut the door to their room and it’s suddenly still.
I grieved in small ways; the empty chair at the dinner table, no more endless half full water bottles to pick up, even the laundry room felt strangely still. I let myself feel it all — sadness, pride, longing, and gratitude. Holding space for those emotions became part of the process of letting go.
What helped was shifting my perspective. Instead of focusing on what I was losing, I tried to focus on what my kids have gained: independence, confidence, a sense of adventure, the chance to make mistakes and learn from them and most importantly, the ability to write their own story.
The quiet house also gave me room to ask myself: What now? What do I want this next season of my life to look like? Slowly, I began filling my days with things that brought me joy — journaling, meditation, and finding more time for friends when I once thought I was “too busy” for all of that.
So back in September 2022, when my daughter left home, I thought the hardest part would be that first goodbye. Watching her drive ahead of us on the way to her new home, the backseat piled with bins and boxes, I felt like I was losing a piece of myself.
What I didn’t realize was that letting go isn’t just a one-time event. It happens again and again — each time she returns home, and each time she leaves.
For the past two summers, our house has come alive again. Her laughter drifting down the hallway, her shoes kicked off at the door, late-night chats in the kitchen — all the little things that make a home feel full, and just when my heart adjusts, it’s time to let her go again.
Now, as she heads into her third year of university (and knowing that this stay is permanent) you’d think it would be easier; that I’d be used to the cycle of goodbyes. But honestly, it still breaks my heart each time. I hug her tightly, I smile, I tell her how proud I am, and then I close the door and let myself feel that familiar ache.
This stage of parenting is both joyful and heartbreaking. I’m so proud of the woman she’s becoming — independent, capable, carving her own path, and yet, part of me still longs to keep her close, to have her messy room downstairs and her voice filling the house every day.
What keeps me grounded is remembering that this is what we raised her for – to take on the world, to chase her dreams, to grow into herself. The ache I feel is just proof of the depth of love we share, a bond that doesn’t weaken with distance.
Each time she comes home — or she texts me and says, “Want to come to my apartment this weekend for a sleepover?” — I savor it. Cooking her favorite meals, hearing about her classes, binge-watching a new series together. These moments are treasures, proof that our closeness will never fade.
Letting her go hasn’t gotten easier. Maybe it never will. I’ve come to realize it’s not really about losing her — it’s about watching her fly, and trusting that no matter how far she goes, she’ll always carry home with her. It’s also a reminder that love doesn’t live in the same four walls.
The nest may be emptier, but my heart feels fuller in a new way — with pride, with gratitude, and with the hope of watching my child soar.
So, as I’ve ended all my writing thus far, please remember if you are going through this right now that the ache of letting go is simply just love in motion, and its proof that we’ve raised them to soar. XO
The Other Side of Nice 