The Long Runway to the Empty Nest

Two weeks ago, Shawn and I drove to Columbia to help Dillon move out of his dorm. Sophomore year: check.

And just like that, he’s halfway through college.

I created a short video about how fast the past two years have gone, and it went viral.

This time of year, as spring folds into summer, so many of us feel it: Where’d all the time go?

This week, Blake took his last exam. 11th grade: check.

Next week, Cate will receive her 8th-grade promotion certificate. Middle school: check.

Blake will be a high school senior (!) and Cate will be a freshman (!), and even though I’m on a long runway to the empty nest, each year goes faster than the one before.

It’s odd because when Dillon came home from college last summer, the reality of the fast-moving school year was a comfort. It was hard when he first left, but then he was home again before we knew it.

It’s emotional whiplash; you adjust and readjust.

When I look back on my early days of blogging, many of my posts were funny and poignant reflections on the moments that I experienced while raising my children. The throughline, the thing my kids were teaching me, was how to be present in those moments.

Nearly two decades later, the message—stay present—is the same.

I can still hear the sound of my own tearful cheers when Dillon walked across the high school graduation stage. I can see and feel myself 10 days later, moving around the hospital room and applying Chapstick to my mom’s lips in the final hour of her life.

After Dillon left for college, when I stood in the kitchen wondering what to do with myself, or when I realized my morning routine had changed because Blake started driving himself and his sister to school, I looked around the room.

I paid attention to how it felt to be standing there, alone in the middle of the room. A little lost, in the same place where my footsteps had worn a path.

Now, when everyone is home together, I soak it in. When it’s time to part ways, I feel the burning in my chest. When I notice I feel off in the days that follow, I pause and remember why: Oh, it’s because Dillon left on Sunday.

There are milestone moments when the scene I’m living in freezes in time, and the magnitude of the shifting season feels palpable.

And then there are days upon days, ordinary days, and I suddenly realize: Oh, this is where all the time goes—it disappears inside thousands of small moments in between the big ones.

Staying present in those in-between days matter too, just as much. Probably even more.