This crossroads of motherhood is an emotional one.

As I sit in my quiet house, I’m confronted with a new reality: my children are grown — and soon to be flown. Empty nesting is no longer some distant idea. It’s quietly waiting around the corner.

There are still a few years before the house is officially empty… but the evenings are changing. They’re quieter. Slower. Sometimes lonely. And yet, in that quiet, there’s almost a whisper reminding me to let go… to embrace this new stage of parenting.

If I’m being honest, I can’t say I’m enjoying it all that much just yet.

I’m used to our family moving at full speed — hair on fire — traveling from town to town for baseball, volleyball, softball, basketball. I used to wish for a weekend with a few free hours to nap or catch up on laundry. My car stayed packed because unpacking felt pointless; we’d just reload it for the next tournament. The lingering smell of sweaty athletes, turf turds, and drive-through dinners was just part of the season we were in.

And now? Both of my kids are driving. Exploring their own worlds. Laying the groundwork for their futures.

I’m still needed — just in a different way. And there is comfort in that. They know I’m here. They know I always will be. But adjusting to this new version of motherhood takes practice. It’s a tender transition.

We raise them for this moment — to be independent, capable, and ready to tackle what’s next. Still, I grieve the little things. The weight of them in my lap during bedtime stories. Playing matching games or Sorry at the kitchen table. Sitting outside listening to their small voices tell big stories.

I truly believe I soaked it all in. But those long days? They were the fastest years of my life.

And now here we are.

Other empty nesters tell me that having adult children is a whole new kind of incredible. I believe them. I know I’ll get there too. But for now, I’m allowing myself to sit in this in-between — to feel the ache and the pride all at once — and to gently prepare my heart for the day when the quiet becomes permanent.

Until then, I’ll keep loving them loudly… even as I learn to let them go.

Photo Cred: Tami Fosher Photography