The Shifting Nest

When you first find out you’re going to be a parent, you’re flooded with information and advice, some helpful, most unsolicited. When your baby arrives, the advice comes again in waves. Everyone has something to say about what you should do, or how you should feel, and you find yourself longing for just a little peace and quiet.

Then one day, you wake up and realise your children are growing into adults. The advice that once filled every conversation has suddenly gone silent. Maybe it’s because it’s too painful to talk about, I’m not entirely sure. But how do we, as parents, learn to let our babies go? How do we quiet the ache that comes from not knowing if they’re eating properly, sleeping enough, or taking care of themselves? You start to wonder if you’ve taught them enough, if you’ve prepared them to navigate this unpredictable world.

It’s even harder when you’ve had to learn how to reparent yourself along the way, teaching them love, patience, and safety while still trying to give those same things to yourself. Funny thing is, I wouldn’t even mind a little unsolicited advice now. Maybe a few words on how to get through this stage, how to ease the ache of letting go.

Maybe the reason no one talks about this part is that none of us really know how to do it. Maybe we’re all just quietly trying to figure it out. And yet, there is something profound in that silence, something beautiful. It’s in the quiet moments, the smile across the room, the hug that lingers a little longer, the phone call that comes just when you need it, that you realise parenting never truly ends. It changes. It shifts. It becomes less about controlling outcomes and more about trusting the people you’ve helped shape.

We teach them lessons not just in words, but in how we live, in the way we carry ourselves, in the love and patience we show, both to them and to ourselves. And sometimes, letting go is less about stepping back and more about stepping into a new way of being present, watching from afar while still holding them in our hearts.

Learning to let go is even more complicated when other children are still at home. You grieve the one who is growing independent while still needing to guide, support, and nurture the ones who remain in your care. The ache of letting go exists alongside the demands of the present, the homework, the meals, the bedtime routines. It’s a strange balance, holding sadness in one hand while holding crayons, snacks, or a comforting hug in the other. You learn to compartmentalise, to feel the longing without letting it consume the energy you still need to give.

Some days, you catch yourself missing the older child in a way that takes your breath away, the empty chair at the table, the quiet bedroom that used to be filled with laughter, the texts and calls that now carry a distance you can feel. And yet, when a younger child runs to you for a scraped knee or an urgent question about school, you have to be present. You must fold your grief into patience, your longing into guidance, and your love into steady hands and open ears. You learn to move through the day carrying both the pride in who they are becoming and the responsibility for those still in your arms.

There are moments when the worry feels heavier than the love, when you want to reach out and fix things you cannot. But then there are days of quiet pride, of watching them navigate the world with the tools you’ve given them, and seeing pieces of yourself reflected in the person they are becoming. Letting go is not a single moment; it’s a series of small breaths, small choices, a continual softening of the grip while holding them in your heart, all while keeping the home steady for those who are still little.

And maybe, in the end, that’s what parenting really is: a delicate balance between holding on and letting go, between teaching and trusting, between giving love and learning to receive it back in ways you never expected. It’s messy, imperfect, painful, and beautiful. And through it all, you learn that the love you gave them as a child doesn’t disappear; it transforms. It becomes the quiet strength behind their first steps into independence, the unseen support in their triumphs and failures, the invisible thread that will always connect you, no matter the distance.

We never stop being parents. No matter how far they roam, how independent they become, how many mistakes they make, they will always be our babies in our eyes. And perhaps that is enough, to hold them in our hearts, to trust the lessons we’ve given, to let them grow, and to carry the ache of love that never fades, while still being present for the little ones who need you in the here and now.

And through it all, you come to understand something essential: parenting is not a linear journey. It is a weaving of beginnings and endings, of presence and absence, of grief and joy. You learn that letting go does not mean loving less; it means expanding your capacity for love, holding multiple realities in your heart at once, and discovering that, even in the letting go, you remain their anchor, their home, their quiet place of certainty in a world that will always feel unpredictable.