“Now I follow you.
At first I carried you. Then I walked beside you. But now, I’ve dropped back to where I belong at this particular mile marker of your journey.
Now it’s time for you to take the lead and for me to trust I protected you well enough when I carried you and when we walked side-by-side for you to feel secure out in front.
Yet I’m still here. A few feet back, watching you do your thing. Watching you choose, watching you navigate, watching you figure out. You are capable, careful, and considerate. It is a privilege to watch.
As an observer, I am not displaced: I am in the right place. Close by if you need me. Waiting for you to say, “Are you coming, Mama?”
And as often as possible, as long as possible, my answer will be, “Yes, I’m coming. I’m right behind you.” Elizabeth Spencer
Three weeks ago, my daughter moved out again—this time, she and her boyfriend rented a condo near her workplace. It’s not the first time she’s left home; during her university years, she rented an apartment and would come home on weekends. When the pandemic hit, she gave up her apartment and returned home. For four years, she and her boyfriend lived with us, and being together day-in and day-out during the lockdown was the first time since she started kindergarten that we spent so much uninterrupted time together. As an only child, we were more than happy to have her back with us.
Having her around as an adult was so different from her teenage years. She took charge of things, cooked, bought groceries, and, as the extrovert to my introvert, she coordinated with the outside world when my social battery was empty. Over the past couple of years, she travelled a lot for work, and our home tended to be pretty quiet when she wasn’t around.
When she first left for university, I had to rediscover who I was outside of being a mother. It was an opportunity to reconnect with old hobbies, nurture my own passions, and focus on my personal growth. The transition to an empty nest was gradual yet sudden. One moment, the house was bustling with activity, and the next, it was just… quiet. I missed the laughter, the chaos, and even the mess. It felt like a part of me was missing.
Now, I have to readjust all over again. I learned to let go when she left for university, and I’m learning to let go again now that she’s working and maintaining her own home. It’s not so much about having someone to take care of, but more about the assurance that she’s safe in her room, where I can give her a hug anytime. As I’m writing this, she’s in Bangkok for a conference, and when she comes back home tomorrow, she won’t be coming here from the airport—she’ll be going straight to her own home. But I also know that this is a natural progression, a sign that I had done my job well. She is spreading her wings and exploring the world on her own terms. She’s thriving, pursuing her dreams, and building her own life.
Even as my daughter embarks on her own journey, I’m also on this lifelong journey called motherhood. I’ve nurtured her and let her go, but I’ll always be here with open arms and a loving heart, ready to welcome her and keep her safe when she needs me. The empty nest is just another phase in this journey, one that holds its own beauty and promise.
