The journey of letting go is so familiar in the human experience. Maybe the most healing work that done comes through the experience of letting go and through that seeing what life has to offer-Below is the story of a mother and her journey watching her kids come of age and leave the nest:
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Everyone talks about the empty nest. The quiet house. The freedom. The next chapter.
What no one told me is that sometimes it doesn’t feel empty at all.
It feels open.
An open nest is different. An empty nest implies something is gone. An open nest acknowledges that what was built is still there, but the birds are learning to fly.
And if I’m honest, it hurts more than I expected.
This morning, I woke up and noticed the absence of cars in the driveway. Such a small thing. Yet it landed in my chest with surprising force. As I walked, I found myself distracting myself from the feeling. Anything to avoid sitting with the loss.
I came home and climbed back into bed.
I miss them.
I miss waking them up. I miss driving them crazy. I miss coffee together. I miss watching them sprawled across the couch. I miss the ordinary moments I never realized I would one day grieve.
The truth is that this season has brought with it a flood of questions.
What if I had worked less?
What if I had spent more time playing and less time worrying?
What if I had known more?
What if I had been more intentional?
What if I had taught them more about emotional intelligence, emotional regulation, and emotional awareness?
What if I had fought less and laughed more?
What if I had slowed down?
Like so many parents, I can look back now and see things I couldn’t see then.
I can see how much of parenting was survival.
There were lunches to pack, schedules to manage, bills to pay, work to do, and a thousand responsibilities demanding attention. I wasn’t thoughtfully crafting every moment of childhood. Most days, I was simply trying to make it through.
I imagine many parents understand this.
We think we’ll have more time.
More summers.
More family dinners.
More mornings.
More chances.
Until one day we realize that childhood isn’t ending all at once. It’s been ending in small increments for years.
And somehow, we missed the farewell party.
The grief of children becoming adults is complicated because it sits alongside pride. We want them to become independent. We want them to build lives of their own. We spend years preparing them to leave, only to discover that our hearts weren’t prepared for them to actually go.
The nest did exactly what it was supposed to do.
And still, I miss them.
What I am learning is that regret often disguises itself as love.
The thoughts that haunt me, “I should have known,” “I should have done more,” “I should have been different” are not evidence of failure. They are evidence of how deeply I cared.
Would I do things differently knowing what I know now?
Absolutely.
I would be more present.
I would sweat the small things less.
I would choose connection more often.
I would sit on the couch longer.
I would play more.
I would linger in the ordinary moments instead of rushing through them.
But I also know this: I can only parent from the level of awareness I had at the time.
Most of us are raising children while simultaneously raising ourselves.
We are healing wounds we inherited, learning skills we were never taught, and doing our best with the tools available to us.
Perhaps that is why this season feels so tender.
The open nest doesn’t just reveal who our children have become.
It reveals who we have become.
And maybe that is the invitation.
Not to stay trapped in regret.
Not to rewrite the past.
But to show up differently now.
To create new experiences.
To build adult relationships with our children.
To stay curious about who they are becoming.
To keep loving them without needing to hold them.
This morning, I missed the cars in the driveway.
I missed the noise.
I missed the chaos.
I missed them.
But underneath the grief was something else.
Gratitude.
Because I got to be their mom.
Because the nest was once full.
Because despite all the things I wish I had known, love was always there.
And perhaps that is enough.
The nest is open now.
And I am learning how to keep my heart open, too.
Lillie Cortes LPC, SEP
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