The liminal space is the hardest part. (In life, leadership and definitely in empty nesting.)
This is a letter/article that’s been on my heart for years.
It holds the words I wished someone would have written for me as I prepared (in vain) for the way my whole life was to be turned upside down the moment our daughter stepped out of our nest.
(And if you’re here for the leadership lessons, I reckon you’ll find that in the final five sentences of this article.)
Words that I could hold and believe again and again and again and again, like:
She will be fine.
You will be fine.
Maybe even better than fine.
And no, things won’t be the same.
Like every level of evolution…from milk to solids, from diaper to potty, from crib to bed, from daycare to afterschool job, there is no going back.
And? This liminal space is the hardest part.
(Gawd, I wish I believed the folks who walked this path before when they told me that.)
This liminal space is the hardest part.
But let me add some of my own observations in the hopes that they support you as you prepare to send your own off to school (or another adventure).
Don’t expect others to understand your precise experience.
They mean well, at least the people you are sharing your grief with.
And in their desire to keep you uplifted, they will tell you things in the vein of what I was told specifically, like:
That you should be happy she is going to a school so close.
That she could be across the country or across the ocean.
That she got into school at all. That she could have failed and dashed your (ahem) visions of a post-secondary education.
That there is even school this year given the years of uncertainty that COVID brought.
That you even HAVE a kid (because that was always on your heart).
That you have a HEALTHY kid.
That you’re only feeling this grief because of the massive love you hold.
That this is your job to love her into her independence and here we are and it’s time to let go.
And they would be right.
But so is your grief.
(And while we’re at it, have you ever noticed that no one tells someone who has suffered a loss how to grieve? Like: you’re lucky you had such a great parent? Think of all the free time you have now? At least you have their memories? Nah. So why is this acceptable with empty nesting?)
Your grief is also real and valid and not everyone will get it and that’s just fine.
You will feel what you will feel. You will vacillate.
You will feel loss for all the moments you will miss their presence, and massive pride and elation for all the joy to come, and parallel sorrow with theirs if they don’t get their first choice, and worry about the choices they will make and will only really be able to sink back on your heels of knowing that you did your best. Even though that knowing will feel less like certainty and more like a a statement with an inevitable ellipses.
“I did my best…”
Just like right now.
You will do your best.
Anticipatory grief is a hungry ghost.
I can tell you now that on the other side of our daughter leaving home for her first year of school that the anticipatory grief just about took me out.
So I worked with a therapist, and created notion boards and plans, and systems and structures that were designed to avoid the hard and when that didn’t work, I reached out to friends and when they didn’t quite get it, this SNL skit brought me untold bouts of joy.
But the moment she was settled in her classes, routine and friend group, the ease that surrounded my heart was surprisingly familiar. Like, seeing her happy face when I picked her up at the gate after a day of Kindergarten. Knowing it was the right place for her…and for me.
May that be so for you with yours.
So I can affirm for me, that the anticipation was indeed the worst part.
She is back for the summer. She has indeed ripped through all of my Crest (actually, Zimba) strips.
And the energy of this household has once again shifted. Filled with her non-sequiturs and little piles of ‘things’ and yes…even the oft-cited ‘fit check.
My focus is once again splayed towards her like a heliotrope cranes towards the sun.
Because, as ever, this is all borrowed time.
There may not be many more move-back-homes for the summer.
She could move across the city or country or the ocean. Who knows what uncertainty lurks up ahead. (And you see where I could go next, right?)
So I’m savouring it as best as I can. This borrowed and precious time.
This life is only and ever transitions and borrowed time and trying to root into the present, isn’t it?
So for those about to send their kids off into their adventure, I will offer you this:
They will be fine.
You will be fine.
Maybe even better than fine.
And no, things won’t be the same.
And for ALL of us:
As you expand into the next, remember that the liminal space is often the hardest part.
You will be fine.
Maybe even better than fine.
And no, things won’t be the same.
That’s a good thing.
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