Empty Nest Grief: Living With the Invisible Loss

“I’m struggling so much with my daughter leaving for college. I never appreciated how awful this would be, and I don’t feel I can talk to others about it without sounding ridiculous.” Over the years, I’ve had many parents write to me with words just like these. One even confessed, “I hope you don’t think I’m a total fruit loop for reaching out, but life feels empty and I’m a bit lost.”

The truth is, what they’re experiencing isn’t ridiculous at all. It’s grief - empty nest grief - and it hurts.

It’s that time of year in many parts of the world when children leave home, off to new schools, apprenticeships, university, college, or overseas adventures. Maybe it’s their first big departure. Or perhaps you’ve had them back under your roof all summer, only to watch them pack up again. Either way, their absence can leave you feeling utterly bereft.

What Empty Nest Grief Really Is

Are you aware that you’re grieving? In all likelihood, that’s exactly what’s happening. And I want to reassure you, that’s okay. In fact, it’s wholly understandable, and entirely appropriate.

Psychologist Pauline Boss called this ambiguous loss: situations where a loved one is physically absent but psychologically present; I think of it as hidden grief, the kind that isn’t always visible to others, but can be felt so deeply.

When our boys first left, I found myself shutting their bedroom doors. It was easier not to walk past and see the absence staring back at me. Closing those doors wasn’t about denial, it was about coping - one small act that helped me steady myself until the ache softened.

I first wrote about the last term of parenting as we knew it almost a decade ago, when our eldest was about to leave school. Back then, I could only imagine what this stage might feel like. Now, living without our boys under our roof, I see how those early endings and this empty nest grief are part of the same story - reminders that life never stands still, but also proof of the work we've put in and how much we care.

Sometimes the hardest thing is the packing - but the silence and emptiness after they’ve gone feels even worse.

Why Letting Them Go Means You’ve Done Your Job

As parents, we have the privilege - one not shared by everyone who longs for it - of raising children and pouring our hearts, minds, and energy into their lives. We do our best. And yet, we often fail to recognise when we’ve succeeded at the very thing we set out to do.

Every year, around now, I get emails and messages from parents who are dreading the moment their children leave the safety of the nests they’ve so lovingly built. I understand - both as a grief researcher and as a mum who’s been there - but the research tells us this is a moment to celebrate too. Their leaving is a hallmark of your success.

The Power of Caring and Daring

You might have heard of secure attachment, John Bowlby’s theory that healthy relationships grow from the ability to form stable, trusting bonds. It’s a reasonably well known idea in parenting circles. But one of his colleagues, psychologist Mary Ainsworth, added a crucial layer to that insight with her research on secure bases. She showed that children need two things at once: a base they can return to and trust in, and the freedom to use that base as a springboard to explore the wider world.

This is where the balance of caring and daring comes in.

When you foster secure attachment, you do both. First, you care: you let your children know you’re here, that you understand them, that you’ll protect, nurture, listen to, and love them. You’ll be the constant in their corner.

Second, you encourage their daring: that inner strength to step out into the world, try new things, take risks, and explore, safe in the knowledge that the nest will always be here for them. They can fly and they can return. They trust in both.

Understanding this has helped me view our empty nest in a whole new light. Now I look around the empty house and can feel good about it, knowing their absence in itself is a mark of success.

Finding New Rituals That Work for You Both

To face the emptiness I’ve found it helps to create new ways to connect while giving your child the independence they crave - and deserve. Personally, I loathe the idea of making them always call on Sunday nights - a hang over from my own childhood, perhaps. Instead we’ve worked out a rhythm that feels right for us - although I’ll admit this has involved trial and error, and evolved over time.

Make a plan now for when you’ll next see each other, even if that means booking flights. I reckon it works best to arrange visits around other commitments, so the time together feels relaxed, not pressured. Better to say you’re going to an exhibition in their city, or have found a restaurant you want to try, than put it all on them. Ask which comms platform they’d like to use to stay in touch. Let them know you don’t want to crowd them, but that you’d worry less if they checked in every week or two.

Over time you’ll discover the rhythms that suit your relationship. In my case, we swap songs we’re listening to on Spotify, and I send endless photos of the dogs doing ridiculous things.

Exhibit A: one of the endless dog photos I send my boys.

It doesn’t need to be deep and meaningful, it just needs to be real and serve the purpose of letting you feel less frayed around the edges, and alone. These small rituals keep us woven into each other’s lives without demanding too much. But like I say, they evolved over time, and to be honest, contact was a rare and precious thing in their early uni years.

Honouring the Invisible Grief

So yes, allow yourself to feel the invisible grief of your children leaving. Name it. Own it. Let yourself sit with the ache. But then, lift your head, take a breath, and acknowledge what you’ve built here. Their flight is proof you’ve given them the caring and the daring they need to flourish in the adult world.

The morning our boys drove off to college, I sat them down, looked at their faces, half men, half the boys I once carried on my hip, and told them how proud I was. And sad too. But that was okay. Because they were ready, and I was, well, ready enough. I made them hug me longer than usual, and they drove away, music playing, trying to mask their unbridled excitement. Ha, I thought, they can’t wait to get away!

The house felt too quiet that afternoon, but under the ache was a quiet satisfaction that they were flying because together we’d built sturdy wings. That invisible grief, once acknowledged, slowly became the quiet pride of having raised children who were ready and willing to fly.

If you’re feeling the ache of an empty nest this week, please know you’re not alone. It’s grief, yes, but it’s also a sign of the love and secure base you’ve given them. You can feel pain and pride simultaneously: both things can be true.