Divorce taught me about empty-nest syndrome early. This is how I cope as a coparent when I miss my kids.
- After over a decade of marriage, my husband and I got divorced.
- Our two kids spend time with him and me, and I miss them when they're gone.
I turn the key, and on the other side of the door is dread. In the living room, I leave my son's water bottle on the couch, my daughter's hair tie on the floor, and I let the socks that didn't make it inside the laundry basket sit. The plates we ate dinner on rest, too, because these objects are reminiscences of the happiness in the air with my kiddos earlier in the day and represent our togetherness in the week before.
The greatest grief I carry is the time lost with my children. This grief is heard in the silence of my empty home every other week.
My ex-husband and I went through a COVID-19 divorce, and now we share time with our two kids.
I try to occupy my free time
I've booked massages, discovered podcasts and books, and binged some Netflix, but when it's too quiet in my apartment, I leave. I go to a local nature sanctuary and arboretum to nurture myself. My walks started during the divorce process, and to keep my mental health in check, I return to nature each week, through all the seasons.
The natural world has filled the heart-wrenching gaps of time with sights of beauty. It comforts my separation anxiety, and my heavy thoughts ease while I walk on the boardwalk.
I admire the pond grass and look up and soak in every tall pine tree in the distance desperately. I notice how the colors of the scenery change week to week. I look for dragonflies, butterflies, turtles, and frogs. I notice the plants turn from green to golden to brown to new buds.
The natural world's revival and the wildlife around me soften my sorrow. On the trails, I breathe in the piney and woodsy smells. I think about how I share an invisible but everlasting connection to my children, who grew in my belly hearing my heartbeat. We breathed together as one and are connected and aligned, no matter the distance.
I'm mindful while I walk forward and look for rabbits, snakes, and egrets, and pound the different terrain while accepting lost time is a part of divorce and that life doesn't always go as expected. In the serenity, I feel less alone and grow content with the isolation when I see a lone bluebird darting to a nearby branch. It feels like a gift. I make new plans and goals for myself on the meadow trails, and the sun peeking through the forest branches is a note to self: This walk is shaped by my love.
I'm always 'on' as a mom
Every diaper change, every bottle, every birthday-party sign hung, all the stroller rides, first haircuts, hugs, lunches packed, tooth-fairy nights, shoelaces double knotted, first swim and scooter rides, hands held, first computers and phones, so many books and slime — everything I have given to the best of my ability meets me on this quiet trail.
For anyone thinking time apart is a break from parental duties, think again. My heart is always on call, and just because it isn't my week doesn't mean I'm not "on" as a parent to handle whatever issue might arise with the children's needs.
For 2 ½ years, I have relied on these pathways as therapy for my longing, as a reminder of the preciousness of time and the importance of self-compassion.
After reaching the farthest lily pond, I'll sit on my favorite bench among the cypress trees. I'll breathe in the peaceful panorama and scroll my phone for memories with my kids I will print and frame. Once I saw a stunning white great egret up in the tree by the boardwalk. I was bursting to tell my kiddos about its S-curving white neck and spanning wings and sent them a photo in a text message of the tall, mesmerizing bird.
Afterward, I said to myself, "You'll see them soon. You are always there. A week will go by fast."