09/03/2024
Momacholy. 💔
I dropped my third daughter off at college a few days ago without much fanfare. It's her sophomore year, along with her twin sister, so she knows the drill.
We dropped my youngest off two weeks ago. She seems to be settling in nicely, meeting new people, and attending classes. She says she's eating well, doing her homework, and exercising. I'm not sure if I can ask for more than that.
We purchased all the things for their dorm rooms, and their schedules are now set. All three have been participating in school events and like their new living spaces.
Of course, there were some tears when we said our goodbyes—mostly mine, but also a few of theirs. But I left each of them with a smile on their faces and excitement in their hearts, and I don’t think a parent can ask for anything more.
As we did our last drop-off, my husband held my hand as I looked out the window while we cruised down the highway for the drive back home.
“Are you okay?” he asked, sniffing a little bit.
“I am. Well, I will be. It’s just harder than I thought. I mean, she’s so ready, but I feel so sad,” I told him.
The next few days, I felt a little numb. The adrenaline of the trip had worn off, and I was struggling to get back into my routine. I wasn’t sitting around crying (although I did a few times), but I wasn’t back to feeling like myself yet, either.
I just felt off.
During the next few days post-drop off, many kind-hearted people texted and messaged to check in on me. There were so many that I started wondering if I was being a little dramatic with how hard the process felt and how I was reacting. After all, thousands of parents do this each year, so why did this feel so hard to me?
And I was doing okay, maybe even better than I thought, considering I'm an empty nester now.
I hadn’t cried as much. but I felt physically exhausted, mentally drained, and emotionally spent. When I mentioned that to a friend, she responded, “Of course you feel that way. It’s called grief.”
But grief feels too heavy of a word to use for this situation, one where I am also feeling pride and joy, and hope. I was thrilled that my daughters were acclimating so well and a little guilty that I was so sad they were gone.
I just felt off.
As I discussed these feelings with others, someone told me they knew exactly what I was experiencing, and it was called "momancholy."
And I can’t stop thinking that’s exactly how I feel.
Momancholy, like its derivative word melancholy, is a depression of spirits, feeling pensive for what was, an abnormal state of sadness for things past.
My life has been a whirlwind these last 20 years. They have been so full of baking and buying and attending and watching and rushing and playing and fixing and consoling and loving.
It all went so fast, and now I’m standing in my kitchen, alone, with no one to feed, no messes to clean, no bodies to hug.
And sitting here in my quiet house, I am sad for what was and incredibly grateful to have been a part of it.
It's grief and gratitude, joy and heartbreak, love and sorrow.
I know I’m not any different. It’s the life of every parent.
It’s momancholy.
So, to answer everyone's question, how am I doing sending my babies out into this world?
The answer is simple: I am just trying to find my way in a life that is so different than it was just a few days ago.
And it is exhausting. And it is draining. And I am spent. And I'm thrilled for my children who are finding their place and standing on their own.
To quote another mom who's been there: "It’s not quite grief. But it’s not nothing either."
It’s momancholy.
Whitney Fleming Writes
