In 2008, the very first version of the Mamalode website had a header image of an empty bird nest. My babies were not even in school yet and I already knew that nest was the image that would encompass motherhood. Now they are 18 and 21. The term “empty nest” is the worst. Empty is wrong. It implies permanence. It implies blank space. Sorrow. Silence. But in reality this time is FULL. Full of feelings, adjusting, recalibrating. Full of new experiences. Full of fear and push and pull. Full of ouch and oh wow.

I am supposed to be an empty nester which I clearly am not cut out to do. I prefer the term OPEN Nesting (hat tip to my dear friend Joey Banks for this phrase). Like an open marriage, but not. Or what I imagine I would feel in an open marriage— unclear of who is in the picture, trying to be cool with it all, but my feelings hurt more than I let on. The reality with my kids is that they come, they go, and they come back. It’s all very changing, and I need to change too. Having adult children is the opposite of permanence or empty— it is constantly fluid and evolving and flowing and crashing and not one bit holds still.

When my sons were babies I felt like needs (theirs and mine) changed so rapidly you could really only strategize the logistics one month at a time. Then the ability to plan stretched to a few months, or a school year. I thought this post-high school season would be even longer blocks of planning. I was wrong. It is more like a reset back to babies where a month of visibility is about all you can dare wish for.

Both times I took kids to college, I grieved. I grieved the closing of a chapter. I grieved those charts that show the minuscule amount of time you spend with your family after turning 18. I grieved my own identity and role with them. I new-old grieved my mom who would have been my partner in the aching missing of the boys Yes, I was excited for them, really. But for me? Not so much.

Both of my sons each only stayed enrolled for a few weeks. Both made the right decisions at the time. They came home, they went away. They live other places. They live with us. It is as open and full and fluid as I could imagine. And as much as I didn’t want things to change, they have, whether the kids are home or not. The chapter is new. Our dynamic is new. It is clunky to find an entirely new way of parenting. What used to help, no longer does. Something new is needed. I can either forever be sad about what can’t return, or I can look forward to the new.

Also new: My right hand has intense pain— I have limited use of my phone or typing, thus I am typing this with strange stiff hands. I have dug out old baby proofing padding and made my phone into something that resembles a soft brick. I stretch, rub, apply ointment, take Advil, use heat and ice, and yet it remains. It is not lost on me that I can’t HOLD ON because I was holding everything TOO TIGHTLY. The fact that I can’t even GET A GRIP would be funny if it didn’t hurt so badly. The fact that my solution was BABY PROOFING— hell, don’t even get me started. I am fluent in metaphor, but this is a lot, even for me.

And now I wonder about my own flight. Maybe leaving the nest is less about my sons more about my own experience and perceived limits. Maybe it is less about adapting and supporting and more about forging my own path. Maybe I am the one who flies.

If you found this valuable, consider Restacking so more people can see it.