When the Nest Empties and Your Partner Feels It Differently

When our youngest child packed up his belongings and moved into his university accommodation, I felt my heart ache in a way I never quite expected. The house was suddenly so quiet - the kind of silence that heightens the absence of laughter, highlights the lack of muddy shoes by the door, and boldens the missing everyday chaos of family life. For me, it felt like I'd lost a part of myself.

But my husband? He clearly wasn't feeling the same sadness I was. Where I felt emptiness, he felt a sense of freedom. Where I found sorrow in meal times, he was busy planning trips we could finally make together, expensive restaurants we could visit now that there would be just a bill for two. His planning irritated me rather than excited me. I wasn't sure if I wanted to embrace new routines, the thought of being a two rather than a four was just too hard to bear. What would we do with our time? What would we talk about? How can it be as much fun just being two?

This felt like a gulf between us. How could someone I love so much not be as devastated as I am? We've been on this journey together - the highs, the lows, the amazing memories - how can he not feel loss? Did he not treasure all those years as deeply as I did?

I would watch as he went about his normal business, relaxed, happy - and it felt jarring. As if the quiet that had settled over the house was so easy for him to accept. I felt isolated in my sadness, like I was carrying the weight of this loss alone. I tried to make myself busy - but the chores were less time consuming, unsatisfying - washing clothes and cleaning rooms is far less satisfying if you're just doing it for two people roaming round a house that now feels too big. Chores I once wanted to "control" made me resentful. I put music on, loudly. Maybe that would help - it did for a short time, until that "memory" song came on, the one we'd all sung along to on a road trip, or the one that reminded me of that amazing holiday...

Finally I realised that I needed to talk about how I felt. I couldn't carry on in silence. I couldn't talk to my kids about how I felt - I didn't want to put the burden on them or make them worry. So one evening, over a glass of wine, I started to tell my husband exactly how I felt. How lonely I felt. How apprehensive and lost I felt. How I didn't share his excitement of trips, meals out, retirement plans. How my sadness was just overwhelming. To my surprise, he said he felt the same, he missed the kids too. He missed the chaotic household, the daily routines, the school runs, the endless activity commitments. His way of coping was to make plans. We can't change the fact that the child rearing days are behind us. We can't change the fact that the children are now independent beings with lives of their own. But we can be proud of them and what we have achieved as parents. We can be involved in their lives whilst creating a new chapter of our own. He needed to look forward, and I needed to stop looking back.

That one honest conversation shifted something between us. It reminded me of a recent Instagram post I'd seen "We do not remember days, we remember moments". There's something really comforting in the thought that every joyful, crazy, heartful moment we shared as a family will live on in all of us. I look forward to the times that I can tell their girlfriends, their children all about our family memories. My husband and I were simply dealing with those memories differently. I want to still be in the moment, still creating memories with those young children. My husband is in this moment, here and now, knowing that the children hold those memories in their hearts in the journeys they now embark on - and he knows it's time for us to have a journey of our own. We began to talk more openly about our hopes and fears for this next chapter. By acknowledging and making room for our different emotions, we began to feel more like partners again. I still cry over the empty, quiet house, but at the same time, I have the space within my emotions to plan that weekend getaway. The gulf between us is reducing with the shared knowledge that we are stepping into this new season together. The nest feels empty but the emptiness definitely feels less daunting - and maybe, if I dare admit it....a little exciting.

In the hush of empty rooms, we find a gentle grace, Every echo of laughter, forever in this space, Though the house grows quiet, our hearts still grow, A new journey starts with every letting go.

Slowly I no longer feel sadness or guilt in the planning of new activities, journeys and adventures. Our next chapter begins in earnest so that we can celebrate our pride in the kids, and they can also be proud of us.