Snow Squalls and Empty Chairs: saying goodbye after break

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In August, when we dropped off our first college freshmen, I expected grief. I knew the house would feel lonelier, the dinners quieter. I didn’t anticipate the house being cleaner-but I’ll admit, that was a welcome surprise. The emotional shift of fall felt inevitable, as predictable as the leaves changing color and dropping from the trees.

What I didn’t expect were the January blues.

A serene winter night scene with a full moon illuminating a snow-covered landscape, where bare trees stand silently along a gently winding creek.

I remember feeling a little sad in November when my twins went back to school after five days home for Thanksgiving. It had been a joyful week-watching them come into their own felt more exciting than scary. As I decorated for the holidays, I reassured myself: they’d be back soon. Just a couple of weeks, and then we’d have a long stretch together.

That anticipation carried me through. The excitement of winter break softened any anxiety about how it might feel when they left again. But now it’s January 14th, and I’m watching a snow squall whip past the window - when did those even become a thing in the Midwest? - and it mirrors what’s happening inside me. A bit dramatic, maybe. But the truth is, when we dropped them off last week, a sudden torrent of emotion caught me completely off guard.

It felt like August all over again - but worse.

In August, there was excitement woven into the sadness. New beginnings. New experiences. The promise of growth. That’s still true, of course. But after listening to their stories for the past month, after having a front-row seat to their lives again, I’m aching because I’m no longer part of it in the same way.

I had braced myself for arguments and power struggles when they came home in December. And honestly, that first weekend delivered-eye rolls, questions about my ideas, challenges to my suggestions. But then, almost without noticing, we slipped back into our old roles.

A joyful family moment at home, featuring the author with her loved ones and their adorable dogs, all gathered for a cozy group photo.

They still rolled their eyes. I rolled mine right back.

There was cuddling on the couch and cooking together in the kitchen. Mira recorded our funniest one-liners in her Notes app. Sam shared an endless stream of facts about Stranger Things, Lord of the Rings, and whatever Hollywood gossip they’d recently uncovered. And my high school senior, Rohan, came fully back to life-loud, obnoxious, and gleefully tormenting his siblings in a way only a younger brother can.

The author's children stack together on the floor, sharing a playful and joyful moment.

And my husband and I? Our lives snapped right back into orbit around our kids. We quietly abandoned our plans to explore what this new, almost-empty-nester life might look like. Instead, we returned to the familiar rhythm of 24/7 parenting-the nagging, the sarcasm, the constant togetherness.

And we were all happy.

Which is why January feels so heavy. Because now I know how good it still is. And knowing that makes the quiet harder than I ever imagined.

So I’ll go back to sitting with my thoughts, the dogs lying at my feet, listening to Ray LaMontagne’s “You Are the Best Thing,” and watching the white flakes swirl around-reminding myself that this season, like all the others, is still part of the story, even when it’s quiet.

Two dogs peacefully nap on a comfy couch, surrounded by cozy cushions and family photos.