I wrote this a few months ago in my journal. I hope you enjoy it and that it resonates with you.

May 20, 2026

I watched my youngest child graduate this week. It was surreal, really—seeing this poised young woman march confidently across the stage, shake the hand of administrators as she collected her diploma, then watch as she celebrated with her friends in the seats on the floor of the auditorium: jubilant, triumphant, with smiles and laughter and joy. My heart soared with hers, and yet, I felt so surprised. How were we here already? Wasn’t it just yesterday that I was searching the toy box for a lost blankey? Didn’t I just hold you by the hand last week, swinging you up onto my shoulders for a better view as we walked the zoo? It was just a short while ago that I sat in a darkened car, your wide eyes glittering up at me in the moonlight as I nursed you, a soft lullaby on my lips.

And yet—here we are. At dinner in a fancy restaurant, toasting your accomplishments, your graduation gown thrown over the back of the chair.

My heart aches.

It aches for so many tiny moments, lost to time. The ordinary minutes of homework, cuddles on the couch, the quick brush of my lips on your forehead as you ran out the door to play. What would I give to go back—to stretch these utterly ordinary times, to treasure them—to shake myself from my distraction by things like laundry or errands or paying bills. Wake up! I’d poke. LOOK. It’s passing you by.

Her childhood passed through my hands like waves upon a shore—the water running beneath my fingers, over and around my palms, such that no amount of grasping could hold it. And yet—I feel my heart aching for each of those crests as they retreat.

That is the fate of a mother. She stands upon the shore, watching the ebb and flow of time—her eyes aware of each swell and yet, it is too much to take in. There are too many waves, too many glittering moments to treasure in their individual beauty, so she surveys its vastness, her gaze fixed upon the horizon, her heart swelling with the endless rhythm of it all.

My daughter is moving away from me, toward that horizon, born upon the crest of each of those moments. It was her destiny from the start—to take this journey, to leave, and yet her distance from the shore seems surprising at times.

I cannot hold her here, and so instead, I return to my own ship, which has sat anchored for so many years, moldering in a quiet wharf as I focused my attention on my children. I will repaint and rebuild, restoring her to her former beauty, and begin my own journey anew. We will cross paths in our adventures, I am certain of it—greeting one another with tales of glory and misfortune, sharing our adventures over a meal in ports unknown. I will rise each morning, reveling in the beauty of her journey, praying for her in the midst of storms, and being willing to sail to her aid should she ever need it.

But with determination, I set a new course.

Raise the sails my love…may the winds be always at your back, and the sun shine always on your face.

“Um, Angela…what are you doing?”

My neighbor was standing behind me, incredulous, as I jumped onto a shovel in my front flower bed in an effort to break through the rock-hard dirt beneath me. Annoyed, I shoved my hair out of my face and turned look at them. “Putting in some fall flowers. These flower beds are awful.”

My neighbor stared pointedly at my rather large, six-and-a-half-month-pregnant belly, protruding from beneath my sports bra and hanging over my shorts. “Are you sure you should be hopping around on a shovel like that?”

“I’m fine. Really. I’m drinking water and taking lots of breaks. But thank you,” I said, grinning patiently and rolling my eyes as I returned to my shovel.

If they only knew.

In that week, the nesting instinct had taken up residence in my body. My husband, away from home for Army training, had no idea that in his absence, I had painted the nursery, put together the crib, and begun washing all of the baby clothes. Stacks of diapers had taken residence in the nursery closet. Books and a small bookcase had appeared, along with new curtains and wall decor.

Beyond the nursery, I’d cleaned the house. Washed the drapes. Organized the linen closet. Somewhere deep inside me, there was insatiable desire to clean, decorate, and make our little military house a beautiful, organized home. We’d moved in just a few months prior, and although I’d done a fairly decent job unpacking and making the generic white walls and beige carpet homey, suddenly everything needed a fresh look. A good cleaning. Some new decorative touches.

I was finally, desperately, making the quarters we were assigned a home.

I entertained a version of this compulsion with each of my children. Oddly enough, I always started nesting early—as if my body knew I’d soon be on bed rest and wouldn’t be able to tackle the endless to-do lists. (Both pregnancies were complicated in this way.) About halfway through, I’d have an irrepressible urge to set things right, to nip, tuck, clean, edit and organize every nook and cranny. Throw pillows and blankets abounded. Because at a deep, primitive level, I wanted nothing more than to create a loving, warm and safe home for my children. For them to begin their lives surrounded by people that adored them in an environment that felt cozy and comfortable.

A few weeks ago, this familiar urge again resurfaced. Closets needed organizing. Lists were made. Belongings inventoried and examined. Endless shopping trips ensued, and piles of Amazon boxes appeared on my front porch.

No…there is no midlife surprise pregnancy. However, I am nesting again.

But this time, I am preparing a home that will never be mine.

I am preparing my children to leave—and to establish their own nest.

With an obsessive fervor, I am considering the future needs of my children, with the same goal in mind: to create an environment that will be warm and cozy and carry them into this new chapter of their lives.

But this time, I won’t be there with them.

As I order bedding, I think of the mornings they will rise without my greeting. How they will tuck themselves in at night, creating their own rituals of surrendering the pressures of the day and welcoming the restoration of sleep.

I pick out plates and cups and utensils, imagining the roommate dinners and late night pizza parties they’ll enjoy without me.

I purchase hoards of first aid and medical supplies, imagining that first cold or flu without me pressing my lips to their forehead to test their temperature. I stuff every remedy into a plastic box, tucking in instructions and bits of wisdom, imagining them stumbling toward it in a feverish haze, searching for the comfort I will no longer be able to provide.

This nesting is far more painful, far more frightening. And yet, I charge forward. Plans are made, lists are checked, I run countless decisions in front of them. I am chased by the haunting idea of leaving them lacking some essential something. It’s irrational, I know. Both of my children are well-prepared for this. Both are perfectly capable of moving into this new season. They will not be waylaid by a forgotten houseware or school supply.

And yet, that deep instinct to establish this home for them, to see them warm and safe and cozy in a place where I cannot follow, is as consuming as that urge to hop on a shovel in the late summer heat was back in 2002.

I cannot orchestrate the community of people they will need to rely on. I cannot secure the friendships and relationships that will sustain them after a disappointing grade, a crushing rejection, or a moment of utter embarrassment. There are so few things I can control in the coming days.

So, I obsess over sheets and rugs and mattress pads. I Google moving checklists and packing tips and product reviews.

And I pray. I pray that the many lessons I’ve instilled along the way have stuck. I pray that the loving, warm and cozy home I’ve made for them all these years will carry them through—to choose friends and partner wisely, to guide them as they create either own home. And I will trust in them—that as they open their wings and step out of this nest I have created, they will soar.

The next morning, we arose to sunshine filtering through the forest. Brad made a beeline for the water, fishing in the coolness of the morning. I sipped coffee and read a novel on the screened porch, swaying on the swing and enjoying the quiet rush of the water. Aubrey eventually rolled out of bed to join me with her book on the porch and we sat quietly beside one another, lost in our respective fictional worlds.

After a bit, I made breakfast, and as the sun rose high in the sky, we all traipsed into the river with our lawn chairs, the coolness of the river rushing over our ankles and the hot sun prickling our skin. Fishing, examining rocks, watching minnows—it was a lazy afternoon enjoying the simple pleasures of nature. When the sun overwhelmed us, we made for the shade, more reading and naps and quiet diversions. As the sun set, we built a fire and roasted hot dogs and s’mores and spent hours talking in the quiet hush of the night, the serenity of the dark only broken by the occasional burst of laughter.

On our second full day, we started with a 4.5mi hike in the nearby wildlife management area, gazing at river views, spotting mushrooms and weird bugs and listening to the cicadas sing. Then we headed back to the cottage, where we plunged ourselves in the river to cool down, a cold beer in hand. We later cleaned up and headed into Ellijay, popping into a couple fun shops, digging through the treasures in a record store, talking to locals, then sipping local wine slushies in rocking chairs on a boardwalk as most of the town shuttered its doors at 5pm. We hit an antique store that stayed open late, then drove to The Falls at Blue Ridge for a nice meal next to the falls. After our meal we went back to the cottage for some Poetry for Neanderthals—a favorite game in our family— and finished our day with some hot tub time.

Our last full day, we decided to tube the Cartecay. We started with the “lazy river” experience, which took about an hour and a half as it meandered through Ellijay. But we were having so much fun, we made a quick dash to Chick-fil-A for lunch and then headed to the “adventure” portion the river that included class I and II rapids. (Coincidentally—it ended about 500 yards upstream of our cabin, so we could literally tube home). It was a 3-hour trip—and it was A BLAST! Also-a lot of work! Push sticks were a necessity and you spent a ton of time navigating in between the rocks and the shallows, so it was a workout and a really fun time. Poor Brad kept getting stuck (the kids and I laughed that he managed to find every high ground in the river along the way 😆. Every time I tried to film him, he’d get stuck 🤣). We saw ducks and geese and turtles, enjoying at times the laziest of currents, and at others, chutes and drops and weaving our way between rocks and boulders. There were two good sized waterfalls at the end and we had a blast dropping down them—they don’t look like much in the video, but I can promise you that going down them in a tube was thrilling! Some definite core memories were made! We finished our evening by cleaning up and heading into town for dinner, then Aiden took Aubrey home while Brad and I hit up a 1920’s speakeasy hidden behind a t shirt shop. Aiden then came back to enjoy a drink with us before we closed the place down (at 10pm—small town hours), then it was back to the cabin where we baked cookies, had an impromptu dance party in the kitchen, and then packed up in preparation for our departure on Thursday.

Our trip was so fun. Except for sleeping, I barely spent any time inside and it was amazing. Brad and I have always thought we were “mountain” people (skiing in the Rockies, hiking in the Appalachians, exploring the Klamaths and Cascades out west) and our time in Ellijay just reinforced that for us. (Sorry Florida, you’re just too flat). We spent most of our time off the grid, the TV in our cabin was never touched, and it was so nice. In my day-to-day life, I spend so little time outside. Between the misery of Florida summer heat and humidity, a schedule that keeps me busy from early morning until late at night, and a job that keeps me chained to a computer, I rarely have the time to just disconnect from technology and truly encounter nature. Don’t get me wrong—I’ll take my laptop out to the porch several days each week to work (with a fan on high blowing directly on me to make it bearable). Occasionally I’ll walk the dogs in the conservation land behind my neighborhood. But that is such a far cry from truly embracing nature, to feeling it surround you, the song of the forest your lullaby at night, the sway of the trees and the light dancing between leaves your “moving picture.” I realize now how much I treasure this time—and how I need to find a way to incorporate it more frequently into my life.

Further reflecting on our trip, I realized how much I enjoy the conversations with my kids. Listening to them share their viewpoints, watching them begin to step into adult life, hearing them wrestle with the complexities of life—it is exhilarating and a little scary and also, disconcerting at times. Some of their views are so different from mine—which creates some discomfort, I’m not gonna lie. Some of their ideas seem misguided to a woman that has spent nearly a half-century alive. (Ugh—that’s depressing.) And yet—I know all too well, that their lives are not mine. Their decisions are not mine to make. And it can be so hard to meet their ideas with curiosity and interest without veering into lectures and teaching moments. Knowing when to offer helpful insight—and when to just shut up and listen—seems impossible. (I think I get it wrong about as much as I get it right, but I’m really trying). This chapter of life is not easy, and yet—it is pretty magical. Having my kids call me when they’re in trouble to ask for help means I’m doing something right. Having them trust me with the details of their forays into adulthood—also a privilege. But easy? NO.

I’m so grateful for this time I had with my kiddos. With just 20 days until they move out to a dorm and an apartment, I’m soaking up every minute. Enjoying this quiet time with them, disconnecting from our routines, being radically present in the moment—it seemed to slow the clock a little. I know as we return home, as we tackle the packing lists and shopping lists and do all the preparations, the time is going to fly. But I’ll always have this time by the river, and I will absolutely treasure it.

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