Endings and Beginnings Are the Hardest Part…

I am going to be straight with you. This is one I sat with for a long time trying to figure out how vulnerable I wanted to get. But if someone is reading this while thinking about moving across the country, becoming an empty nester, or completely starting over somewhere new, I decided it was too important not to write as raw as possible, uncomfortable or not.

So here we go.

The drive to Colorado Springs is over twenty hours and through some genuinely beautiful country, most of which was currently on fire or shrouded in smoke. If you have been watching the news you know what I mean. I will say I felt very seen by the region, like it knew my old life was just poof gone. I will also say I am slightly embarrassed by how long it took me to connect my burning eyes, my aching chest, and the visible smoke in the air into the realization that breathing smoke is bad for you and that I hadn't magically gotten covid. Turns out that is a thing. Who knew.

Arriving in Colorado Springs felt like exhaling clean air. We got into our suite, got comfortable, ordered food, and I sat with the quiet gut-punching awareness that this was one of my last two meals with my kid for a very long time.

The next day I took my child back to school shopping for the last time.

It has not changed much since kindergarten. Puppy folders are still cool no matter how old you are. We wandered the aisles the same way we always have, and I held onto every minute of it.

Then we went to the campus.

It was the day before move-in, so it was quiet, just us walking through the place that had wooed and dazzled my kid into saying yes. And here is the thing that hit me standing there looking out at the views of Pikes Peak stretching across the skyline. One year ago to the day we had driven past this exact school on a completely different trip and I had looked over at it and thought “oh that sure is pretty” and that was the end of the thought. I had no idea. We had no idea. And now here we were walking the paths my kid would walk for the next four years.

I got a little misty-eyed.

Not because I was sad. Because I was so incredibly proud. I did not have someone pushing me toward college when I was in high school. Later, as a young single mom, those conversations never happened for me, its almost like the bar was sat on the floor and left there. Watching my kid stand in front of the epic view of Pikes Peak at the school that recruited them, that offered them a full ride, that became their dream school, something cracked open in my chest in the best possible way. I was so damn happy I was here to support my child for this. I was so happy that I had my small part in them achieving this for themselves. And I sneaky little pat on the back to myself for being a bit of a tiger mom and giving them a gift I wished had been wished for me.

The last morning we had breakfast together. My kid cried saying goodbye to their best friend since they were small, our little dog, who turned ten this year. My child was so worried that he wouldn't understand and think they had just abandoned him, which seems to be our dog's worst fear.

Then we drove to the school, moved their stuff into their dorm, met the roommate, fixed the loft beds to the right height, (I snooped around the laundry room and communal spaces with another mom), and together we got everything exactly right.

And then I quietly asked if they were ready for me to go.

They said yes.

I want to be completely honest. Deep in my heart I was hoping they would say no.

I was not ready. But this was not my moment. This was theirs. Their fresh start. Their origin story. And it did not need mom helping pick which set of sheets to use first when they were starting this new chapter in their life.

So I closed the door behind me.

And I gave myself a full internal pep talk the entire walk out of that building. Do not cry. Do not cry. Do not be the mom having a complete crash out in front of the dorms. You can make it to the car. You can do this.

I made it to the car without shedding a single tear.

And then I sat in the parking lot and panic bought furniture.

The idea of going home and sitting alone in the single dining chair that made the move, in my empty living room like I was waiting to be interrogated by the mob was too sad for the fresh start adventure I had planned for myself. So for the first time in my entire adult life I bought something without asking my kid's opinion, without thinking about whether they would find it fun or comfortable or cool.

I ended up with a couch that was supposed to be hunter green. Keyword “supposed” to. And a glorious bug-themed rug. Both purchased in approximately ten minutes from a parking lot while shaking slightly.

I hooked both dogs to the dual leash walk for the first time alone, called my best friend who was making sure I did not yeet myself off anything tall, and then sat in the hotel hot tub. Where I read the rules sign for the first time and discovered one of the rules is do not use the hot tub alone.

Fresh start as a solo person and I am already a rule breaker. Ha! Take that world!

That evening the school put on a last dinner for families and students and I will say that school knows how to host. I ate a piece of tofu that changed my entire understanding of tofu. I had dinner with my kid and their roommate. I gave my kiddo a big hug. I walked to my car.

And I started packing my single bag to leave while sipping gas station champagne I also panic bought to cheer myself up. (Yes, I know for some of y'all gas station champagne would be the worst of times)

Little did I know how much I would need that drink for a much spicier situation.

At 3am I woke up, loaded the dogs into the car, and started the drive home.

I would love to tell you the journey back was uneventful and peaceful and that I just listened to podcasts and had a nice quiet drive through beautiful scenery. That is partially true. But it began with a naked woman.

Not me. I want to be very clear it was not me doing some kind of full body review in the mirror.

I was walking the dogs in the wooded area between the hotel parking lot and the swanky restaurant next door before the drive, a typical habit I do before every long stretch, when I noticed a car still parked outside the restaurant. The restaurant had been closed for hours. As I walked the dogs past it, still a bit in the trees, the back door opened and a woman stepped out with no clothes on and proceeded to get dressed in the parking lot while her companion remained in the back seat.

I did not want to make noise and alarm her or have her think I was some kind of peeping tom. So I quietly started trying to get the dogs back to the car. At which point they chose that exact moment to start an argument with each other and began barking at a volume that I am confident could be heard in several neighboring states.

The woman dove back into the car. I dove into my car. I sat there for five minutes trying to create the impression that the dogs had simply barked at a random noise. She eventually emerged, finished getting dressed, and slid into the backseat. I took my chance and pulled out of that parking lot knowing I had accidentally witnessed a 3am parking lot situation likely at her place of employment and honestly good for her, I say that with complete sincerity. I will say she looked great.

And then I drove home.

Most of the route was on fire. Genuinely on fire. The air quality in Butte Montana when I stopped for the night was 160, which is genuinely bad, and the sunset was red not because of beautiful colors but because of smoke. On the way I passed a fire that had reached the road and something that looked like a smoke tornado except it was more of a participation trophy tornado, a dust devil on crack. My chest hurt. My eyes stung. I had made this drive as fast as I responsibly could because I was not interested in inhaling more of this air or being trapped in the car with nothing but my thoughts and two very grumpy dogs, or stopping at one more gas station giving out free banana-flavored condoms in the bathroom. Eleven states in three weeks is intense for anyone. At the same time I knew that rushing home meant opening the door to being completely alone and I was trying to not think about that too hard.

Every time my brain tried to do the thinking I put on another podcast and into my mouth went another lavender latte. I will say I now know an insane amount of fun facts about women in history but the content did not matter (despite how good it was). They were voices and I needed voices.

I pulled into my driveway in Portland and sat in the car for a moment.

And then I opened the door to dead silence.

There is something about having spent your entire adult life with someone else always there. Someone to decompress with at the end of the day. Someone whose stories fill the house. Just the noise of another person existing in the same space as you. Walking past the stairs I knew I would barely be going up anymore and hearing absolutely nothing felt like my heart was being pulled out of my chest Vampire Diaries style.

I simply could not handle it. I took the dogs to the backyard. Put on comfortable shoes. And walked to one of my new favorite restaurants to get pork belly and sticky mango rice before I had a chance to sit with the silence long enough to fall apart.

And I sat there alone in my single dining room chair eating the most delicious thing and giving myself a pep talk.

This is it. Day one of the rest of my life. A new city where I know no one. An office waiting to be set up because I will be honest, I took the week off besides some social media management because I knew just how heavy this week would be. A couch that is allegedly hunter green somewhere in transit. An empty living room with a dining chair and a television and unpacked boxes.

And somehow, improbably, I was okay.

Not fine. Not thriving yet. But okay in a way that felt like the calm before well before something.

This is what nobody tells you about moving cross country and becoming an empty nester in the same month. The silence is real. The proud is real. The grief is real. The fear of the unknown is real. And somehow all of it lives in the same moment at the same time and you just have to sit with all of it and eat your pork belly and let the city outside the window slowly start to feel like home.

Guys, I’m home.