Lessons From a Free Bird

I have a new title. It's free bird. Or, empty nester. Or, bird launcher. I'm officially something related to birds.

On Friday morning, my hubby and I did what we had been talking about for almost two decades. We dropped our youngest off at college. 

Saying goodbye to our son, Ben, after 18 years is a doozy for my little heart. And, it’s all going according to plan. It’s all that I had hoped and dreamed for him. And, here I am in a puddle. That irony makes it painful. All the focus and hard work to raise a human being to get you to this point and then you don’t want it to be here. Not yet. 

We always want more time. With everything we love, I suppose.

So, my heart hurts and I’m wandering the house with the attention of a squirrel. I’m starting projects, then leaving them half-finished. I’m coming up with ideas and then losing track of my thoughts. That’s where I am in this moment. Which is a little like being nowhere. The whole of last week, I barely knew what time it was, not knowing what to do next when I looked at a big list of to-do’s. Is any of it important? 

It’s one of those times in life that feels murky because it’s housing uncertainty. And ol’ fashioned sadness. And curiosity, I guess. And, pride of course. I kinda felt like I needed to add something slightly positive. 

And, my glass is also more than half full. So, don’t worry. 

I’m proud of my son for launching. I’m proud of my husband and I for the role we played in that. And, I feel lucky that I loved the ride, even when it stressed me out or made me feel like I had no idea what I was doing.

Even when it seemed utterly impossible to run a business and raise two small humans at the same time.

Even when someone got sick before every important meeting.

Even when they forgot their lunch box in middle school at least once per week and I’d fly out of The Hivery trying to get it delivered.

Even when the things that scared or hurt them scared and hurt me, too.

Even when I waited up waaay past my bedtime to hear the door knob turn in the lock.

Even when I had to say hard things like, “I’m so sorry that happened.” or “I know how important that was to you.” or  “You’re grounded.” 

But, it’s also true that I’m not quite ready for this chapter to be over. I like being a mom in this way. I like the constant in and out of friends and backpacks on the floor and towels everywhere. And, I don’t know what it’s like to be a mom in the next way. So, I think I’ll leave my heart here, thanks. Or, just move into the dorm? :) 

Bright side: maybe now I’ll actually get to keep my own phone charger. Praise be! 

I’ve handled big identity shifts before and survived; I know you have, too. We know it won’t kill us. But, letting go hurts in a deep ache that is disorienting and makes you want to reach for something to hold on to… a metaphorical or literal anchor. Advice or a hug or a cookie. 

I’ve reached for the phone more than once this week, that reflexive gesture to call out for love, before you stuff the phone back in your purse. There’s not much to say and I wasn’t sure who to call (even though I have a phone filled with loving people in it, many whom are feeling the same way right now).

I’d really love to talk to my mom or my sister, who I’m assuming will flutter those angel wings back and forth between where my kids are living to keep them safe. Or, at least that’s how I like to imagine it. Whether you believe in angels or not, you’ll call them in when you have to, so I’m counting on my army of angels to stay alert. 

It’s normal to grasp for what we’ve known, for what we love. Of course it is. It’s what humans do when we’re uncomfortable; we thrash around looking for comfort, only to remember that it doesn’t come from thrashing. How many times do we need to be told? Comfort comes in the quiet. So, you’ll find me at 7 am yoga, I suppose. 

I’ve dedicated the last ten years through The Hivery to helping women create next chapters, mostly because I had felt the discomfort of creating my own. I wanted a guide, so I became one. Because we all get to this pinnacle of change again and again. We look around, blinking, wondering where on earth we’ve landed after grief, identity shifts, new roles, lost love…it always leads to questioning what to do next. The irony isn’t lost on me that I’ve had to do some serious soul-searching of my own these last few chapters. We teach what we need to learn, right? 

What has struck me profoundly about this experience of letting go of this particular chapter is the drumbeat of time. The beat quite literally goes on and on and on, whether we like it or not.  

I had my son eighteen years ago. He landed on my belly like a pile of play-dough, snuggled in close, eyes still shut. He didn’t seem to want to come out. It was as if he was protesting, in the same way he wouldn’t get out of bed for high school many years later. He stayed snuggled in close for the first six years, with most pictures of him on my lap or hugging my leg. I loved it. And it feels like just a second ago. But, 18 years have gone by and now he’s a man with a kind smile and big biceps (the guy loves the gym). He’s certainly not hiding behind my leg. 

The years went by and by and by confusingly in a flash. The same is true for my daughter at 20. I remember how she looked courageously deep into my eyes when she came out and how the first thought that I had was, “She knows more than I do.” That was also just a second ago. Or, twenty years ago. It’s all very confusing. She’s still an old soul; that truth has remained the same. 

Fly, baby birds, fly. But, wait…

This time is rushing by. The years, the months, the minutes are speeding up and going faster, even when we stay present and savor them. Even when we’re grateful. Even when we’re paying attention. It’s just true that the clock is ticking. I wish it weren’t so.

I wish I could offer you a September promo where I stop the clock for just a day or so. You’d buy a value-pack, wouldn’t you? But, alas. 

The good news is that I’m here on the other side of your screen, pondering the deep questions. And, I hope they can be useful to you as you ponder your own. If you need a friend to remind you that time is wooshing by, and one who begs you to do what you’ve always wanted to do with your precious time, I can be that friend. 

And together we can ask some serious questions of this moment:

Like, what is it that we really want to do with this life?

What is our impact?

What can we pass on, from hard-earned wisdom to the tiniest act of kindness?

What talents do we want to share?

What creativity do we want to express?

What do we want our daily lives to look like?

What do we want to do every day (or most days) to feel vital, creative, and alive?

Are we brave enough to do it?

And, then I suppose (sigh), we need to get started. And live that life made up of ordinary days that we’ve thoughtfully curated to be the days we want, the days we need. Because, if we’re so lucky, another 18 years will woosh by, and hopefully another and another. And, we’ll sweep the white hair away from our faces and look forward to another sunrise. And we’ll wonder why we worried about so much stuff that didn’t matter. And, we’ll fill our days with love for others, and also finally for ourselves. Maybe we should just do that today. Throw the rest of your to-do list away.

That’s all I have to share. Just some deep questions from a teary mom. But, I’m here. Writing to you. Expressing. Holding space for what you’re feeling, too. It’s a weird and still stunningly beautiful time to be alive. I’m glad we’re in it together. Let’s make some beauty. 

Xo,

Grace