For Empty Nesters On Mother's Day

Permission For All Your Parts To Be Here

In June 2024, my nest became empty. This month, I lost the nest I raised my child in for 17 years after my landlord decided to turn the home into a corporate retreat center. Now I am nesting anew in Sonoma County wine country, a 5 minute walk through the redwoods along the creek to the Russian River, an hour and a half drive away from Muir Beach where my little one grew into a bird big enough to fly.

I have been swamped with book edits and moving duties, and my daughter will be home from her gap year in Portugal for the summer by the end of June. But as soon as the boxes are emptied, and once she goes to art school in NYC, I foresee a time when the responsibilities of mothering a teenager in my home are behind me, a time when I can stop saying no to cool opportunities because I decided not to become a mother who misses her child growing up. I’m still in the grieving phase as this current chapter comes to a close, so I’m not ready for silver linings yet. I’m still in denial that Mother’s Day is on Sunday and I’ll have only my partner Jeff to paper over the pain of the loss I feel guilty about feeling, since I’m thrilled for my daughter, but sad for myself.

Nobody tells you when you take out the IUD and start trying to get pregnant that if you do your job right, if you make sure you don’t enmesh with your child or raise them to believe they have to take care of your feelings and your needs, if you have good boundaries and teach them to have the same, if you raise a child with enough empathy to care about your feelings but not so much empathy that she can’t fly when it’s time, then the heart you willingly put inside another body will fly when it’s time. You will be abandoned by the most important connection you created in your body, out of nothing. And that is what is supposed to happen. That is a mark of health, a sign that you were a good enough mother who didn’t infantalize your child or make them believe your feelings are their responsibility.

It helps to remember that, that I would never want my daughter to experience “failure to launch.” I would not want her to feel like she had to stay home and sacrifice her dreams in order to prevent me from mourning the empty nest. I would not want a child who was too attached and not able to individuate and be her own person. I know some mothers with children my daughter’s age who are still living at home, as if nothing has changed now that high school is over. Those kids seem to be caretaking their parents or other siblings, rather than becoming their separate, individuated adult selves.

I wouldn’t want that. Or to be more honest, most of my responsible mother parts wouldn’t want that. But some of the younger, attached parts that remember having her inside my body and now have trouble breathing on holidays without her would think it wasn’t so bad if she stayed home with me forever.

I’m learning to hold space for all the parts that arise around mothering, empty nests, and this Sunday’s Mother’s Day. I’m also feeling empathy for my own mother’s empty nest and for all the rest of you who understand the tender experience of love and loss, even though you know things are happening just as they’re supposed to.

I’m sure there will come a day when I will be ready to see the silver linings, all the things I’ll be free to do now that I’m not over-functioning as a working mother who was the sole provider for my family for most of the mothering years while also trying to show up for my daughter emotionally with my (hopefully) undistracted presence. But I’m not there yet. Maybe by next Mother’s Day…

Until then, my parts wrote a poem for you.

To the Nesting Heart

A Mother's Day poem in honor of the sacred empty nesters

You held the world in lullaby,
With hands that caught each newborn cry.
You kissed the scrapes and grew the wings,
Then watched them fly to other things.

Now silence sits where laughter played,
And echoes hum where toys once laid.
The rooms are still, the beds well-made—
Yet your deep love will never fade.

Oh, Mother-heart, so vast, so wise,
With tenderness behind your eyes,
There’s grief beneath the pride you feel,
A part that wonders if love's real.

You smile wide when they call home,
While parts of you still feel alone.
They're chasing dreams—you cheer, then ache,
Then judge yourself for feeling fake.

You miss the chaos, miss the mess,
The morning hugs, the evening stress.
You're proud—they're soaring, full of glee,
But wonder, "What is left of me?"

And guilt might whisper, soft and low:
"Don’t feel sad—just let them go."
But parts of you still need to cry—
Not wrong, not weak, just asking "Why?"

Let her speak—the part that aches,
That mourns the mess, the spills, the cupcakes.
She’s not too much, she’s not too sore,
She just remembers having more.

And you—dear Self—can sit with grace,
Beside her in this spacious place.
You need not fix or make her small—
She’s just a part of you, not all.

For underneath the longing pain,
Are roots that still and will remain.
You mother now in subtler ways—
In texts, in dreams, in cheering praise.

You are the hearth, the flame, the light,
The soul who held the dark and bright.
Though beds are empty, love expands—
It circles back in grown child hands.

So bless the ache, and mourn the loss,
The sacred space, the martyr’s cross.
Your mothering is never done—
It’s moon and tide, not setting sun.

This Mother’s Day, may you feel seen
By all you’ve loved and all you’ve been.
And may your parts all feel embraced—
In every hollow, every grace.

It isn’t over. You’re not done.
This isn’t dusk—it’s just new sun.
The love you gave your child still grows,
As tears that well inside you flow.

The nest has changed, but you remain—
A steady light through joy and strain.
Your mothering, though less in view,
Still shapes the world in all they do.

May you have permission to feel all the feels this Mother’s Day.