Life After Motherhood

I never thought I’d still be writing about motherhood years after my son grew up. But here I am — sitting in the quiet of a home that doesn’t echo with little feet, no one crawling into my bed at bedtime, no longer wiping tears or cutting the crust off of sandwiches.

Life after motherhood looks different than I expected.

When I pictured this stage of life — the so-called “empty nest” — I imagined freedom. More space. More time. A chapter full of possibility and lightness. And yes, some of those things are true. I have the time and money to travel, the freedom to eat crackers and cheese for supper, and more space in our home than I know what to do with. But the reality is more layered, richer, and sometimes harder than I ever anticipated.

My days are quieter now. The noise has faded, and with it the constant nudges of responsibility that once shaped each moment. But that quiet hasn’t always felt like peace — sometimes it’s felt like a mirror I couldn’t look away from. Without the blur of everyday parenting, I was forced to sit with myself in ways I never had to before. Who am I beyond being a mom? Where did the woman I was before children go — and what were her dreams, goals, and fears?

I miss the rhythm of being needed — the instinctual purpose of tending, guiding, and protecting. I miss the way my son's little arms used to wrap around my neck,  as he’d say, “Love you, Momma.” I miss seeing his face at the end of a school day. I miss hearing him yelling at the Xbox up in his room. I miss all of his what-if questions. I miss hearing, “Night, Mom. Love you,” at the end of a long day. I miss the activity and chaos that was exhausting and ordinary and beautiful all at the same time.

When you’re an overwhelmed parent begging for a break, people tell you, Enjoy it! You’re going to miss this! And it’s true — but I didn’t know how much I’d miss it until it was gone.

Life after motherhood isn’t just absence. It’s transition. It’s a reorientation of identity — not away from who I was, but toward who I am becoming. It’s the subtle shift from doing to being — from constant motion to intentional presence.

There were seasons when being his mom meant being his safe place in ways I didn’t fully understand at the time. After the divorce, when weekends were divided and routines changed, he would choose to stay with me instead of going with his dad. I didn’t question it — I just held the weight of how deeply he needed that choice to be his. Later, when his heart broke for the first time, he crawled into my arms like he had when he was small, and I felt my own heart splinter right along with his. There is nothing that prepares you for watching your child hurt — especially when you can’t fix it.

So much of my motherhood was shaped by wanting to give him what I never had. To teach him what I wished I’d known sooner. To show him the world through adventures, not fear. That also meant restraining myself when he'd say, "Mom! Watch this!" and perform wild kick flips and watching him do his thing skateboarding in a bowl in Venus Beach. I wanted him to feel supported, seen, and capable of choosing a life that felt like his own.

When he talked about moving to Hollywood, chasing a dream that felt both brave and terrifying, I supported him — even when my mom-heart worried quietly in the background. And when he changed his mind, chose a different path, stayed, and built a career he’s now absolutely rocking — with no student debt — I felt a gratitude so deep it almost knocked the breath out of me. Pride doesn’t even begin to cover it.

This season has asked me to redefine what it means to be a mother beyond daily caretaking. My son is an adult now — living his life, building his world. I’m proud of him in a way I never knew possible, but that pride is tinged with a tender ache I didn’t expect. I’m learning to love from a distance that feels big and brave and beautiful all at once.

And through all of it — every version of motherhood, every shift and letting go — my love for my son has remained the most certain thing I know. It doesn’t need language or proof. It just is. It lives in the way I notice him, trust him, and believe in who he is becoming. It shows up now in adult conversations, in asking his opinion, in hearing his perspective and realizing — somewhere along the way — he became someone I deeply respect. I love that kid in a way that has no edges and no end, and I’ve learned that love doesn’t change when the role does — it only finds new ways to show up.

Life after motherhood has also taught me something surprising:

I am more than what I gave as a mother.

As women, we pour so much into our children that our title becomes our identity.

I. Am. A. Mom.

Really? But what do you like to do in your spare time? What are your hobbies? What are your goals and dreams? What are your fears? Every answer we give, as moms, revolves around our children. Nothing else feels more important. Until one day, it does.

I am still a woman with dreams, with passions, with spaces in my heart that extend beyond the role I once lived every day.

Some days, that feels like liberation.

Other days, it feels like loss wrapped in love.

And most days, it just is — neither wholly easy nor completely overwhelming.

I’m learning to hold this version of myself with grace. To see that motherhood didn’t end — it evolved. I’m still a mom — just in a way that doesn’t require me to pour from an empty cup. I’m learning to fill myself back up — not for anyone else, but for me.

Life after motherhood looks different than I expected.

It’s quieter, yes.

It’s more reflective.

It’s more intentional.

And it’s teaching me that love doesn’t diminish when the active duty ends — it simply changes shape.

Life with my son looks different now. He towers over me, all long limbs and quiet confidence, and I still lean into his bear hugs like they’re home.  Our adventures look different these days — less about managing and more about meeting each other where we are. I’m no longer leading the way, but walking beside him, grateful for the relationship that continues to evolve as he becomes who he’s meant to be.

Motherhood reminds me of being a chameleon — life before kids, raising them, and empty nesting. Each season asked me to change colors, adjust my shape, and become what was needed at the time. Motherhood didn’t end; it simply shifted into a new rhythm. This is my new season, and I’m choosing not to rush past it.

And if he ever wonders — even for a moment — he should know this:

I have always loved him, I love him now, and I always will.