The house has felt different. Quieter. There’s a pair of his gym shorts folded on the table that he didn’t take with him the last weekend he came to visit. I’m going to put them away in his drawer as if he was still here. His mail shows up alongside ours and I place it on his desk to open when he visits again. Please excuse me while I come to grips with the fact that I have been living through the biggest shift I have experienced in motherhood and it’s taken me three months to get into it.

So let’s start there. The weekend we dropped Tanner off at college.

The days leading up to it were spent preparing. We made sure he had everything he needed (I swear that shopping list felt like it was never going to end) and I spent the days before packing up all of his belongings and crying my eyes out while he finished up his last days of working (he had the opportunity to work with the Bearded Gent the last month of being home which allowed him to earn more money than he would have staying as a server at the local restaurant).

I am so glad they had that extra time together.

I’ve been a mother for 18 years now. And through those years you hear so much advice and talk about the whirlwind of raising children—late-night feedings, the chaos of toddler tantrums, the unpredictability of the teenage years—but what no one really prepares you for is the moment your child leaves. One minute they’re under your roof, where you can check in on them, see them at the dinner table, laugh with them. And then, suddenly, they’re just not there.

It’s a jarring, almost violent shift, and I don’t think we talk about it enough. And I realize now that no amount of preparing, to-do list checking, and keeping myself busy in the days leading up to him leaving could have prepared me for the hole that I have felt. It’s almost like losing a piece of yourself in some strange way. You spend years raising, teaching and nurturing this child who, before your very eyes, grows into a man. And while you know that your job for those eighteen years was to prepare him to be that independent man that you are now looking up at, it doesn’t make it hurt less. To really come to grips with the fact that, yes, in a way part of your job is done.

It truly is like living through the slowest breakup.

The time had come and that Saturday morning we packed up both our car and his with as much as we could fit and headed north to Kentucky. We did our best to make it a special weekend with the whole family despite all of the moving parts involved and the limited time we had. We stayed at a cute little boutique hotel in Lexington, ordered our favorite desserts after dinner, took one more trip to Target to grab some last-minute things, the kids gifted him handmade cards and letters, and we tried to soak in the last 24 hours we had as a family with everyone together.

I noticed a bit of tension in the air. I mean, coordinating seven people is never an easy task, especially with being on the road, but Tanner and I were short on patience and especially with each other. Jokingly, I made a comment about it as we were cleaning up dessert and Tanner’s response was a slight chuckle “well, yeah… I’m freaking out over here”. I stopped what I was doing and by the time I turned to face him, tears were streaming down my cheeks. We met in the middle of the room and, towering over me, he wrapped his arms around me and I don’t think I have ever hugged him tighter. I wasn’t the only one feeling big feelings. We were both facing something new and were silently losing our minds while trying to remain stoic. Apparently, I’ve taught him a little too well. 

“Everything is going to be OK” I whispered. And surprisingly, I believed it.

That entire morning was a bit of a blur as we drove to campus, and figured out where we needed to go and what we needed to do. Things were buzzing all around us as new freshmen and returning students were arriving to get settled in. Tanner got to his dorm room before his roommates and Blake and I got right to work unpacking, decorating, and organizing. The campus has a lot of history to it and the dorm rooms show the wear from over the years, but it was a quaint space and just right for his first college experience. My goal was to make it feel as comfortable as possible, complete with an ode to his childhood in the form of a Lightening McQueen plush. Eventually, we were able to meet his roommates along with all of the parents and even exchanged numbers to keep in touch through the football season. The homemade banana bread that Blake made sure to pack and bring was a big hit with all of the guys as well as a few coaches.

Before we knew it, it was time for us to go. After all, Tanner is there on a football scholarship and that day was “install day”. He still had hours ahead of meetings, getting all of his equipment, and trying to get settled in before the first practice the next morning. Each of the kids took their turn saying goodbye and after a quick family selfie in the parking lot, I looked him in the eye and told him to be good. “I know, Mama” was his response and with one last hug and I watched him walk away, off to do amazing and wonderful things.

I was able to hold it together until we all piled into the car . I took one deep breath and the tears just ran down my face. The worry, the fear, the sadness at not getting to see him every day – it was alot. I watched that campus get smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror until it was out of sight. We pulled onto the interstate to drive home to Nashville, but I left a piece of my heart behind in Kentucky that day.

We don’t talk about this transition enough as mothers. We don’t share how your heart will ache when we pass by their bedroom. Or the feeling of seeing their closet emptied. We don’t discuss how difficult it is to not have their presence in our daily routine. There’s no parenting book that tells you how to cope with the quiet space they leave behind.

We spend so much of motherhood preparing our kids for life, but no one really tells us how to prepare ourselves for the moment they walk out the door. As mothers, we pour our souls into every stage—nurturing them through each milestone, worrying over the details, guiding them when they stumble. But then, one day, without much fanfare, we send them off to college or out into the world, and suddenly, the structure we’ve built our lives around shifts in the most abrupt way. A way that feels irreversible. And to be honest, with a son, it is. And goodness gracious, it is hard.

Fast forward to today. Three months later and life is becoming a bit more normal. As much as it can be, I guess. We have been so lucky to have him come to town on two or three different occasions and we were just able to be up in Kentucky to see him start as QB1 in his first college game. It’s been bittersweet. And while I will always miss him, it has also been incredible to watch him in this next chapter.

This transition isn’t something I was truly ready for. How could I be? In a matter of days, I went from knowing my son would walk in the door for curfew to wondering if he made it home safe each night, if he’s eating well, or if he’s carrying himself the way I taught him to. There’s a natural urge to protect him like I always have. Truly a bit comical seeing as how he has stood over me for the past four years and whose strength is far superior to mine. But now, I find myself having to stand back, let go, and trust the job I did.

Trust. That’s what this stage is all about. Trusting the lessons, the love, the guidance, and the values I’ve instilled in him over the years. Trusting that he has a good head on his shoulders and the strength to make his own way. Trusting that when life gets tough, he’ll know how to lean on the support system he’s grown up with, and that he’ll come out stronger on the other side.

But as hard as it is, there’s also a deep sense of pride through the pain. Because despite all the fear and uncertainty, there’s comfort in knowing that I did my best. I poured everything I had into raising him, and now it’s time to step back. It’s time for me to trust that he’s ready to navigate the world without me watching over his every move.

Over the past few months, I have learned that motherhood doesn’t end when they leave home—it simply shifts. We’re no longer needed for the day-to-day tasks, but we’re always there in the background, cheering them on, offering advice when they ask, and loving them through every new chapter. And as much as this stage feels like a loss, it’s also a beginning. A new relationship between a mother and son. One built on trust, respect, and the knowledge that no matter where life takes them, we’ll always be there when they need us.

So, to all the mothers who are quietly struggling with this transition, know that you’re not alone. And know that the love and work you’ve put in all these years—that’s your comfort now. You’ve done the job. And even though it feels like your heart is walking around outside your body, you can rest in the knowledge that they’ll carry a part of you wherever they go too.

P.S.  I’m so grateful for a daughter who has the same love for documenting that I do. Especially in a moment where I wasn’t focused on it. This video is from our family archives and gosh, I am just so grateful to her for creating it for our family.

I’m most definitely crying. 

P.P.S. I know that, as mothers, sometimes a bit of practical support helps soften the heartache. If you’re also preparing for this big step, I’ve gathered everything we found helpful for Tanner’s dorm—items that truly made the transition smoother for both of us. You can take a look and shop our favorites right here.