I absolutely hate the term ‘empty nest syndrome’. I instinctively bristle at the idea of myself, or any mother, as a mother hen whose only purpose is to cluck around her fledglings, and whose identity and sense of meaning come crashing down when her children fly the nest.
I am more than a mother. I don’t live in a nest. I am madly in love with my children, but my existence and identity don’t depend on their presence or their need for me.
Beyond its patronising tone, my main issue with the term is that it fails to capture what this stage of life actually feels like. I am crushingly heartbroken because both my children have left home.
I absolutely hate the term ‘empty nest syndrome’. Children leaving home is ‘f*****g horrible’.
Actor Will Mellor described his children leaving home in a recent article as ‘f*****g horrible’, and I agree. But for me, it’s not about the obvious things that ‘empty nester’ suggests. It’s not the absence of active parenting or the quietness of the house. I love quiet. I love the tidier house, the smaller pile of ironing and the freedom to work longer hours. What I hadn’t anticipated was what this change would mean for my own life.
The first impact was a total shock. I was blindsided by overwhelming grief for my own life, and the question ‘What did I do that for?’ hit me like a steam train. I’d spent nearly 30 years focused on having and raising children. It took us six years and thousands of pounds to become parents. The next 20-plus years were devoted to caring for them and bringing them up with joy, gratitude and deep, deep love. I started in my twenties; now I was in my fifties. I’d spent those decades in service to two people who, because I’d done a good job by our culture’s standards, had the confidence to leave home without much of a backward glance. Their leaving felt like a full stop at the end of a whole era of my life. So, yes, I had the thought: ‘What did I do that for?’
Thankfully, that feeling passed. I am back to knowing exactly why being a mum mattered, and continues to matter, to me. The two humans I co-created are, by far, my greatest life achievement.
What I’m left with now is simpler: I miss them. Not the active mothering, the caring or the labour of daily parenting. I miss their company. They are two of my favourite people in the world, and we’ve always done so much together. With one in their first home and the other living abroad, time together now takes detailed planning. We can’t just catch up in the kitchen, go for a spontaneous walk or take an impromptu shopping trip. They are doing those things with other people now, as they should. But I’m bereft.
I’ve always felt that a parent’s love for their children is more absolute than an adult child’s love for their parent, and I think that’s how it should be. My mother-in-law warned me that my time with them would fly: they were borrowed, not owned. They would grow away, and my life would not be the same afterwards. She was right. I wouldn’t change that, and I love witnessing my children’s growth. But I can be happy they’re living their own lives and still ache for their company. Having an empty nest, I still hate that phrase, is, as Will Mellor so eloquently put it, ‘f*****g horrible’. For me, at least.
