After wiping my tears on the drive home and adjusting to the quiet of my house, I was surprised by what lingered. Naturally, I missed my kids when they left for college, but I couldn't shake the feeling of helplessness. My two oldest children are now away at college, and my youngest is preparing to leave the nest in a year. Now, there's nothing for me to do. They no longer need me in the same way they once did.
Instead of rushing off right after graduation, we got bonus dinners, family time together, and the kind of unplanned conversations you can't schedule on FaceTime. When he finally did move, it wasn't so bad. New York is only a three-and-a-half-hour train ride away. I knew I could hop up for a weekend visit if I missed him too much. The distance was manageable - just far enough for him to be independent, but close enough to comfort me.
Several years ago, when the last of my daughters graduated from college, loaded her 'how-can-she-possibly-carry-that!' backpack, hugged me tight, and boarded a plane for South America with a one-way ticket, I felt a hole in my stomach the size of a meteor crash pit. I knew so many things at that moment. I knew I had a world of worry ahead of me that would last the duration of her adventure-with-no-end-date.
The term empty nest first emerged in the late 19th century, gaining traction in psychological and sociological discourse by the 1940s. Originally, it evoked a singular image: a mother alone in a quiet house, mourning the departure of her last child. But the reality, then and now, is far more nuanced. While the term was once gendered, today the emotional impact is felt across all parents, regardless of role or identity.
