I Became an Empty Nester and Was Hit With Intense Grief

When I dropped my son off at college for his freshman year, I was plagued with questions: Will he make friends? Will he get his homework in on time? Will he get caught texting during class?

I was then forced to return home to the proverbial empty nest. The adjustment quickly became a complicated mix of sadness and excitement, anxiety and pride, and that feeling in my gut that things will never be quite the same.

But my empty nest triggered something bigger in me. Bringing my 18-year-old, Ethan, to college opened a Pandora’s box I didn’t even know I was carrying.

It was a box I’d been holding on to since my other son, Jake, died 13 years before.

I struggled to adapt to my new empty nest

While Ethan was acclimating to being a freshman, I was back home grappling with a host of feelings that were new, and yet eerily familiar.

I cried every time I walked past Ethan’s bedroom and saw it clean and neat — a sure sign that he was no longer living with us. I made huge dinners for my husband and me since I wasn’t sure how to cook for just the two of us. I still bought all of Ethan’s favorite snacks only to have them remain unopened.

I just missed him. At times, I found myself struggling to breathe.

My feelings of grief returned

I was also sometimes unable to differentiate between Ethan’s departure and Jake’s death. My logical brain knew they were different, but my heart didn’t. Eventually, all these feelings rose to the surface and burst open my Pandora’s box, leaving shards everywhere. I found slivers everywhere for months after.

Ironically, I’d always prided myself on being very attuned to my grief about Jake. I often visited his graveside, refreshing his flowers and bringing him trinkets from our travels. I brought him balloons and other silly things on his birthdays. I even started a foundation in his memory to give me an outlet to talk about him. But when Ethan went to school and I felt that void both in my house and in my heart, I realized that I never really dealt with the loss of Jake.

When he first died, I cried until I was raw for weeks, but eventually those tears dried up, and life continued. I thought that was the process: I grieved, and then I was done.

But once Ethan left, the pain came back, and it was worse than I remembered. It took me some time to connect that the pain was related to Jake’s death. Slowly, I became reacquainted with my grief, and I let myself spend the time with it that I hadn’t before. I began to understand that grief isn’t linear. It’s more like a pinball bouncing around for the remainder of your time on earth.

Oddly enough, this big grief epiphany came to me on the 13th anniversary of Jake’s death, and I dealt with it by writing him a letter. This is part of what I wrote:

“Getting used to the house without your brother nearly broke me. I couldn’t help but compare it to your leaving. It is not something you can tell people because A) no one understands, and B) it is weird and not really at all the same. The thing is that it felt the same to me. I existed with this crazy hole in my heart and had to train myself to realize it was different.”

I’m learning to live with grief and joy

Grief isn’t always negative and dark, or at least it doesn’t have to be. Dark days exist, but for me, the sadness makes me love harder and appreciate life more than ever before.

This new version of me is empowered by my grief, almost like it’s my superpower. I’m no longer self-conscious about talking out loud to Jake. While I know it’s just a name, I feel a deep-rooted sense of joy and comfort when I meet other “Jakes.”

Losing Jake remains a huge part of who I am. I just brought Ethan to school for his junior year, and Pandora’s box is no longer with me. Instead, it’s a gift that allows me to remain connected to both of my boys and feel secure that our relationships can and will continue to evolve. And for that, I’m eternally grateful.