From Empty Nest to Full Canvas: Channeling Change Into Creative Pursuits

When I held my sweet boy in my arms for the first time I was the one crying like a baby. After a preeclampsia diagnosis and whirlwind emergency c-section, he made his debut a couple of weeks early and was rushed off to the NICU while I was still splayed open on the operating table. 

He was already 24-hours old when I finally got my first fix of what would turn out to be a highly addictive substance: my child. 

Holding that tiny human, I could barely imagine him walking, talking, and riding a bike, let alone getting a job and driving a car. But sure enough, one day, seemingly overnight, my itty bitty mini-me sprouted into a man. 

As I write this, my son is a senior in high school, so my nest is still Grand Central Station. 

But last week one of my best friends cried her son off to college.

In the 30 years I’ve known her, I’ve never seen her this fragile.

I. Am. Terrified.

I know this day is coming for me too, and I’m afraid if I blink, it’ll be here. 

The empty nest season is a paradox. There’s pride, yes, but it’s served up with a hefty side of loss. 

Despite all the times I complained about the noise and the mess over the years, I know the wake of my own offspring’s flight will have me willing to trade every tidy room and quiet hallway for a time machine. 

At some point, all of us moms will stand on that ledge with our second act fading and an uncertain expanse of time and space in front of us. 

And I don’t think it’s just the kid heading out into the world that’s scary. 

It’s the question of what’s next?

How will we fill the time and space? Who are we now after the bulk of our adult identity was 95% Mom? 

And yes, I know we’re still “mom”. But it’s not the same.

But maybe that’s ok. 

At a bare minimum, our responsibility as parents is to make sure our kids can be independent one day and that empty nest is a sign we did our job.

So let it out and have a good cry.

Then let’s dry our eyes, mamas. 

Because the space left behind by a fledgling isn't just emptiness. It's potential. It’s room for growth, rediscovery, and reinvention.

The stillness is an invitation to possibility. You get to decide what comes next and it’s not about anyone else, for a change. 

That expanse looming out in front of us, as sad and lonely as it might seem, is a blank canvas beckoning us to paint what’s next.

And here’s the best part: 

Every emotion you feel, every memory that tugs at your heart, every dream you shelved for "later"—they are your colors, your tools.

Start with the memories. Paint them with a loving stroke. The joyous days, the tearful nights, the mistakes, the victories—let them all find a place on your canvas.

Then dig deeper. 

Because this is also a reclamation of our authentic selves.

Remember the old dreams you set aside? The dance classes, the pottery lessons, the unfinished manuscript? 

To quote a wise Goonie, “It’s our time.” 

Society frames the empty nest phase as a slow, tragic, extinguishing of what was. 

But we’re nowhere near blazing out. 

We might have banked our flames for a time to take care of business, but our dreams are still smoldering, and the breeze floating in through the cracks in our heart will only serve to stoke our fire.

Oh, there will be challenges. 

Fo sho.

But there’s also room to create. 

So, pick up that brush. Dance to that song. Write that story. Call up your best girlfriends and plan a trip somewhere you’ve never been!

Your canvas awaits, not as a testament to what was, but as a beacon of what can be. In the dance of life, sisters, let the empty nest not be a pause, but a pirouette into your most passionate, creative self.

The world doesn't just await your next creation; it craves it. 

Let your canvas be as full, vibrant, and limitless as you are.