Empty Nest Syndrome: A Mother’s Journey Through Letting Go

Empty Nest Syndrome: A Mother’s Journey Through Letting Go

As my second child spreads her wings, I find myself facing the stark reality of an empty nest. The house feels too big, the rooms too empty, and I’m left wondering where the time went.

Saying Goodbye

My daughter was ready to leave home, but I wasn’t ready to let her go. I don’t consider myself a clingy mother, but as I kissed Bianca goodbye and left her arranging her new room in her university dorm, I felt a new ache in my heart. I held onto that last glimpse of her, hanging her clothes up, not wanting to let go.

The flight home from Dunedin felt long and heavy. A few rows ahead, another mother sobbed into tissues, her son also starting his university journey. She told me at the baggage belt, “I’m not ready for this. His childhood is over.” I didn’t sob, but I felt like it.

The Empty Nest

Back home, Bianca’s bedroom felt cold and empty. I missed the sight of her wet towels on the floor, the empty cans hidden in the garden, and her dirty plates on the bench. I missed her asking, “What’s for dinner?” and “Can you…?” Instead, I washed her sheets and closed the door to her bedroom.

Even though her younger sister was still living at home, the house felt too big, full of empty rooms and too much space. For days, I walked around the echoing house, wondering how she grew up so quickly. It only seems like yesterday that she was cartwheeling around the living room in a pink fairy dress, dancing to The Wiggles.

The Shock of Letting Go

Bianca was my second daughter to fly the nest. Her older sister left home three years before, but she went to a university just 20 minutes away—not a plane ride. The shock wasn’t as hard, and she still comes home for dinner every Sunday night.

Until Bianca left, I didn’t really suffer from empty nest syndrome. I started to be aware of it when couples about a decade older than me started downsizing, moving closer to town, or seeking a different lifestyle. Women who embraced their new independent identities often changed careers or went back to work. Others continued with their routines, whether that was walking the dog with friends or going off to busy jobs.

A New Chapter

What struck me— as I plumped up the pillows on Bianca’s bed and even leaned over to smell the perfume lingering on her dressing gown—was how confronted I felt watching my daughter start an exciting new chapter. I hate to use the old cliché, but being 18, when the world seems full of possibility, feels like yesterday.

I was excited for her but grieving that she had gone, and a bit confused about this fading motherhood. I’ve been a mother for 21 years; mothering has been as central to my existence as breathing, walking, and eating. What now?

Finding Guidance

For guidance, I looked to women a few years older, whose nests are now empty. Those who seem to fare the best fluff their lives up with new things for their “second act”—people, jobs, hobbies, voluntary work, and travel (when that’s possible). It’s an approach therapists advise: grieve, then fill the void with new opportunities and experiences.

Over time, empty nesters usually adjust to the sparser nest and appreciate quality time with their kids when they do come home. Their children are now adults, and so their relationships evolve into adult ones.

Elizabeth Peterson, an education and development psychologist at the University of Auckland, says parents should guide their children towards adulthood and independence, not try to keep them dependent because we can’t bear to let them go. We should teach them to be resilient so they can go out on their own.

The Evolving Relationship

What I notice over the first university semester is that my relationship with my Dunedin daughter evolves. She may be hundreds of kilometers away, but we chat regularly. She usually answers the phone when I call (rather than the old days of ignoring it), and she texts me for advice.

Also, I’ve heard from other parents that kids “boomerang” back anyway, as Bianca does in early April, when she arrives home for 10 days over Easter. Her flight from Dunedin is delayed, and her younger sister Mia and I wait outside the arrival gates. Where is she? And then she’s there, her long hair swinging over her shoulders as she runs towards us. My eyes fill with tears. I’m proud of her and kind of proud of myself for raising such a cool, independent daughter with strong views and values.

She embraces her sister in a long, tight hug. I’m next. Her body is soft, warm, and familiar. She’s home. Not for long, but it’s long enough.