There’s a misconception we don’t talk about enough the idea that parents only start grieving when their children “leave the nest.” As if it’s a single moment marked by a suitcase by the door, a tearful goodbye in a dorm room, or a handoff at the end of a wedding aisle. As if love has some expiration date once independence begins.
But the truth is, the letting go begins long before that. It doesn’t crash in it seeps. Quietly. Softly. In unannounced moments that slip by unnoticed by the world but hit us like waves in the still of our own minds. It starts the day the house feels just a little too quiet. When the bedtime stories stop. When the tiny shoes are packed away. When the once constant “mommy, watch this!” fades into headphones and closed bedroom doors.
It starts the moment we realize there are fewer firsts ahead and more “lasts” we didn’t know were happening until they were already gone. The last time they asked for help tying a shoe. The last time they reached up for our hand in a parking lot. The last time they climbed into our bed in the middle of the night just because they needed to feel safe.
Recently, my daughter took her first solo drive. She held the keys in her hand like they were a passport to freedom equal parts nerves and pride. I smiled, waved, and cheered her on like I was built for it. But when the door closed behind her and her car turned that corner, I crumbled. Not because I wasn’t ready. Not because I didn’t trust her. But because I had never stood in that exact place as a parent before and I knew I never would again. One first and one last all wrapped into a single moment.
When my son takes that same drive one day, it will be beautiful. It will be brave. But it won’t be new. That sacred “first” will already have passed, and with it, the quiet ache of knowing we are always moving forward never back.
But here’s what I know with all of my heart: we don’t lose our children as they grow.
We grow with them.
Yes, they change. Yes, we’re no longer the center of their universe. Yes, they need us in different ways. But the bond? It doesn’t disappear. It stretches. It transforms. It takes new shape across seasons, across heartaches, across growing pains and celebrations. The love doesn’t shrink with space it expands with it.
And yet, if I’m being honest, letting go is still hard.
It’s hard when you were once a child raised in chaos, in survival. When your childhood memories are marked more by tension than tenderness. When you had to grow up too soon. When hugs were inconsistent or conditional. When love came in fragments or not at all. When no one really taught you how to feel safe or seen. Letting go now as a parent isn’t just about releasing them into the world. It’s about learning how to hold space for their freedom when you were never allowed to have your own.
Sometimes I find myself hesitating not because I don’t want my children to soar but because some wounded part of me aches at the thought of losing something I never had. I parent from a place of deep love but also from a place of deep healing. And that healing comes with layers I’m still learning to peel back.
I want my kids to have every moment I missed. Every bedtime tuck-in. Every whispered “I’m proud of you.” Every ounce of safety I had to search for in other people. I want them to never wonder if they’re too much or not enough. I want them to walk through this life knowing without question that they are loved. Deeply. Fiercely. Unconditionally.
Because watching them grow? It’s the most breathtaking form of love I’ve ever known.
To witness them move from unsteady steps to sure-footed strides. From wide-eyed wonder to deep, thoughtful questions. From “play with me” to “can we talk?” To watch their humor, their empathy, their individuality unfold it splits me open in the best kind of way.
And I wonder sometimes did my parents feel this way? Did they ever look at me and feel the pull of time moving too fast? Did they feel the sting of goodbyes wrapped inside ordinary moments? Or were they so consumed by their own pain, by their own unhealed wounds, that they couldn’t see me at all?
I don’t know if I’ll ever get an answer to that.
But what I do know is that I will never let my own children go a single day without knowing how deeply they are loved. Not just in the big, loud ways but in the soft ones. In the quiet car rides. In the texts that say, “just thinking of you.” In the way I smile when I hear them laugh from another room. In the way I show up, every day, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.
Because even now even when they’re taller than me and forming lives that don’t always include me, I still see them.
I still see the tiny hands that once held mine with complete trust. I still see the sleepy eyes from early morning wakeups. I still see the spark in them that little piece of childhood that never really leaves. The curiosity. The imagination. The playfulness. The goofiness.
And God, I hope they never lose that.
I hope no matter how grown they become, they keep that softness alive. That wonder. That spark. That fearless love of life and dreaming.
Because we don’t raise them to stay small.
We raise them to become everything they were meant to be.
And still they’re ours. Not in the way of diapers and lullabies anymore. But in a way that’s deeper. In the connection built from years of showing up. From sitting on the edge of their bed when they’re unsure. From celebrating their highs and anchoring them in their lows.
They’re ours in the way their laugh will always be our favorite sound. In the way their success feels like our own. In the way we can still see the child inside the teen, the young adult, the grown-up they’re becoming.
Parenthood is a series of micro goodbyes.
But it’s also a lifetime of loving harder, deeper, better with every new version of our child.
So no, the nest doesn’t empty on one dramatic day. It empties slowly. In whispers. In missed traditions. In quiet Tuesday evenings where they don’t ask for help with homework anymore. In milestones marked by pride and a gentle ache. But it doesn’t mean the love fades. It just means it moves.
We just keep growing, together.
And if you’re reading this today with a lump in your throat, or tears in your eyes, or a heart full of gratitude and grief wrapped up into one you’re not alone.
This is what love looks like as it grows up.
This is how we hold on without holding them back.
And this is how we keep going one quiet goodbye, one proud moment, one growing heart at a time.
-Masked Mom
P.S.
And on the nights when the house feels too quiet, and the silence starts to echo in places you didn’t know could ache please know you’re not the only one.
There’s a mom out there, somewhere, standing barefoot in her kitchen with tears she can’t explain. A mom replaying memories that came without warning. A mom who smiled all day, but crumbled the minute the lights went out.
She’s scared, too. Grateful, too. Grieving, too.
She’s learning how to let go without losing herself.
And she’s thinking of you.
Because even though our stories are different, our hearts are stitched with the same thread the kind that only a mother’s love can weave.
You’re not alone in this growing.
You’re not the only one missing what was while learning how to love what is.
Tonight, in the quiet, we’re in this together.
