We build the nest anyway
My daughter turned 18 this year. And I've been grieving.
Today I climbed a ladder and hung an owl house in a tree in my front yard.
It was heavy. We needed rope, a drill, and some careful maneuvering to get it secured to the trunk. The ladder wobbled. But we got it up there, facing the right direction, at the right height, filled with wood shavings and ready.
And then I climbed back down and looked at it from the ground. An empty nest, waiting.
When my kids were little, we read Owl Babies over and over. Three baby owls—Sarah, Percy, and Bill—wake up one night and their mother is gone. They sit on a branch and wait. Sarah tries to be brave. Percy tries to reason it out. Bill just keeps saying, “I want my Mummy!”
Things move in the dark woods. They huddle together. They close their eyes and wish.
And then: she comes back. Soft and silent, she swoops through the trees.
“What’s all the fuss?” she says. “You knew I’d come back!”
Owl Babies is written from the children’s perspective. But today, I’m thinking about the mother. I wonder if she was worried, too? Snuck out while they were asleep, hoped they wouldn’t wake up while she was gone. And then, as the Mom, her job was to make them feel like everything was OK.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about all the little and big separations that happen as kids grow up. And the grief associated with releasing them to be ever more independent.
My daughter turned 18 this year. Legally an adult. On her birthday, they cut me off from her medical records. Just like that.
And I’ve been grieving.
Like I grieved when we dropped her off at boarding school. I had lost a friend to cancer a few months earlier, so grief was fresh for me. And when I walked into my daughter’s empty room for the first time, it was unmistakable. I felt like she had died.
I had to stop and remind myself. She wasn’t dead. She was away at school. This was a joyous thing. She wanted this. We wanted this for her.
And still, my body experienced it as grief.
Yesterday, I visited a friend with a baby who is beginning the weaning process. She knows it’s the right thing to do, she’s relieved that her baby can be more independent from her, and she is also so sad.
As we talked, it struck me: we’re both facing the same kind of grief. The grief that comes with letting go.
We carried these children in our bodies. We provided everything they needed until they were born.
And then, from birth to adulthood, there’s just one separation after another.
Weaning, going back to work, dropping them off at day care or school for the first time, summer camp.
In each of these moments, I’ve experienced a mix of relief and loss.
As a younger person, I tried to brush past moments of grief. I’d turn my head so my tears weren’t visible.
But as I age, I’ve been holding space for my grief.
The owl house is up now. Empty, waiting. I don’t know if anyone will ever use it. But I hung it anyway.
We build nests. We fill them. We teach our babies to be brave in the dark.
And then we let them fly.
Even when it makes us cry.
🕊️
SAM
