Standing On A Fault Line

We're weeks away from an empty nest, and I am not okay.

I’m currently sitting on an airplane in an economy window seat. Next to me is a young mother with her two children, ages 2 and 5, I’d guess. This woman is a total pro. She has drinks and snacks and toys and games and crafts, and has addressed every one of their questions or frustrations without sounding even slightly annoyed. And while I’m not exactly envious of the chaos she’s managing in this very moment, I’m watching her, neck-deep in motherhood, and my throat suddenly feels swollen with sadness. Our younger daughter leaves for college in 18 days.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a mom.

When I met my husband, John, I had recently extracted myself from an abusive relationship with a DC cop. I’d been quite certain I didn’t want to have children with him, which made me think maybe I didn’t want kids with anyone. But not long after I fell wildly, madly, impossibly in love with John—literally a lightning bolt—I wasn’t so sure anymore.

John is from a big, New York Italian family, and is far more at ease with kids than I am. He’s brilliant at making up long, silly stories, has an unreasonable supply of patience, and remembers vividly what it’s like to be a kid. A few months into our relationship, I began to suspect that not having kids with this person would be a missed opportunity—for him, for me, and for our future babies.

Our first daughter was born during a hurricane, both literally and figuratively. Hurricane Isabel moved through Washington, DC as I labored through light and dark to get our little girl into the world. Once she was safe in my arms, the threadbare medical staff scattered and left us alone in our room, strewn with blood-soaked rags and suture trays, as the lights flickered and horizontal rain streaked past our window. We were parents—exhausted, ecstatic, terrified.

The figurative aspect of the hurricane was going back to a trauma surgery rotation when our daughter was five weeks old—close to 100 hours a week with overnight call in the hospital every 3rd night. Those early months of motherhood were brutal. We had trouble latching, which made breastfeeding sessions excruciating. I had a powerful, visceral urge to be home with our baby, but also wanted to finish my training. I pumped compulsively every four hours, desperately trying to make up for my physical absence by becoming a dairy cow. My lack of control over my schedule made me want to control every other thing I could when it came to parenting: room-darkening shades, introducing new foods in the perfect sequence, and a positively militant sleep schedule.

I somehow muddled through, with the help of my incredible husband, making copious mental notes about needing to forgive my own mother for the long hours she worked when I was a child; I missed more bedtimes than I care to remember in that first year. In full-circle fashion, my mom’s career was winding down then, and she stepped in frequently to help us, puffing up with pure delight whenever our daughter called her name.

Eventually, I finished my residency, we moved out west, and I found my footing as a mother. I learned to loosen my grip on some of the little things, in order to find more joy in the bigger experience of watching our bright little girl interact with the world.

By the time we welcomed our second daughter, my mom was deep in the trenches of her battle with pancreatic cancer. I flew home to say goodbye to her a few months later, baby strapped to my hip. The moment my mother left this world, our daughter woke up with a sudden squawk, and I had the sensation that some sort of energy transfer was happening—as if my mom were gently passing wisdom into her granddaughter’s mohawked little head on her way out.

That may have been the exact moment when I realized that I was meant to be a mother. Because even if my mom had not been a perfect mother, she had been my perfect mother. She knew me better than anyone else on Earth, and cared about all the ridiculous, boring details of my days. She made me feel seen, loved unconditionally, and absolutely cherished. I understood, as her spirit drifted away like mist clearing from a morning sky, that I didn’t have to be a perfect mother to enjoy motherhood: I just had to show up as fully as possible, ready to teach and ready to learn.

Raising our girls has been the single greatest joy (and the single hardest job) of my life. Being a good mom requires constant self-reflection, and a willingness to work on your own bullshit when it’s getting in the way. Being a good mom means recognizing when you’re not being a good mom, and changing course. Being a good mom is often more about listening than about offering advice. Being a good mom sometimes comes down to the simplest gestures, like helping tie a shoe, or opening your arms with no questions asked. I think I’ve been a good mom.

And now here I stand, on the fault line between having kids at home and not having kids at home, and I’m starting to panic.

I may not have been certain I wanted to be a mom, but motherhood has been the primary filler of my cup for the last 22 years. While I know I will always be a mom, I can’t pretend I don’t feel the tectonic shift happening underneath my feet. Or, more accurately, I am now going to stop pretending I don’t feel it, which is what I’ve been doing all summer.

I know I’ll find my balance again, once the kids-at-home stage falls away. I have meaningful work, an excellent marriage, and a long list of things I want to do—all the elements of a happy, empty-nester life. I want my little birds to fly free and create their own lives, and have absolute faith that they are equipped with all the tools they need to do so. But the idea of coming home to a quiet house makes me feel like my lungs are collapsing. I’m so looking forward to the next part of life, where my husband and I get to do fun things together—we adore each other and make each other laugh to the point of wheezing multiple times a week. But not having to run home in the middle of my work day to get someone’s cello or nordic boots makes my bones ache with sorrow. And the realization that from now on, all time spent with my children will be in the form of visits, rather than sharing the same roof, makes my chest feel dangerously tight.

Listen, all you sage empty-nesting experts, I understand that there are new phases ahead, including amazing experiences with my adult daughters and their partners, and maybe grandchildren one day. I know that my work as a mother is never over; just yesterday I got a call from our almost 22-year-old daughter, who was having a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day and, in her words, just “needed her mommy.” I am signed up with a heart full of love for all the beautiful stages that await me.

AND, my heart is breaking. Just as I disapprove of the fact that I must die one day, I’m giving this moment in life a one-star rating. I’m mad that this era is ending. I loved having two girls in my house, at every age. From reading “just one more” Mr. Men book, to sitting on the stairs listening to them sing corny songs from the Waldorf School, to deciding when to step in during a heated argument and when to let them hash it out on their own, having babies in my house has made me—there’s no simpler way to say it, so please excuse this decorative pillow language—live, laugh, and love more fully than I could ever have imagined.

As I finish this post, another day has passed and we’re T-minus-17 days until we drop off our last little bird. I’m writing this not because I want you to fix it for me—you can’t. And I’m not asking you to make me feel better with words of wisdom, although I’ll gladly read your hot tips for navigating this transition in the comments below. I’m setting this down in an effort to acknowledge and give some breathing room to what I’m feeling right now, and I’m sharing it here on Substack in case there are any other moms feeling the same seismic trembling underfoot right now. If you’re out there, know that you are not standing on this fault line alone, and that whatever you’re feeling, even if it’s different from what I’m feeling, is valid. Give yourself grace and space, mamas.

Until next time,

💙Sarah

Postscript: The mom next to me on the plane had come entirely unglued by the end of our three-hour flight. It turns out she had three kids on the plane. At one point, the husband came to her with the third kid, who was melting down, and she looked at him with icicles in her eyes and said “I have two. You have one. Handle it.” I share this not in judgment, but in quiet companionship, with a slight measure of comfort that I am not alone in having a few less-than-graceful marks on my own parenting report card. I tried to send her my best “I see you” vibes, but what she really needed was a bath and a glass of wine. I hope she got both.