The following article has been excerpted from I'll Miss You Too By: Margo E. Bane Woodacre, MSW & Steffany Bane August (Journal entry) Here I sit, looking at clean and pressed clothes folded ready for Steff to pack for college. Her trunk is already filled and closed.

Now Steff was heading off to a life of total freedom. I realized that I had no control over the hours she kept, her study habits, her partying, or the friends with whom she chose to spend her time. Would she act responsibly and wisely? Had I done a good job of teaching her right from wrong?

I found it more difficult to openly communicate my concerns with her during the busy summer months. She had distanced herself from me more than usual, and when I attempted to have necessary talks about this, she accused me of having little trust in her. It seemed that our usually good communication was waning.

Home Quiet Home

My own master’s studies in social work covered the many stages of the life cycle including the “Launching of Children” stage. At the time of study, I seemed to understand the key principles of this stage enough to write a paper about it. My studies helped me to better understand the empty-nest syndrome in an intellectual sense but did not prepare me personally for what I was about to experience.

Our house now seemed abnormally quiet. The phone didn’t ring as much. The familiar sounds of chatter were gone, as were the whispers, the music, and the laughter from my daughter’s upstairs room. Any reminders of her that remained—a book bag, her sneakers, her key ring, the yearbook—all brought a heavy feeling to my stomach and tears to my eyes. I actually changed my traffic pattern around the house so that I would not have to walk by her room.

The reality of this emptiness in my life hit me when I went grocery shopping for the first time after Steffany had left home. Suddenly, I was shopping only for my husband and myself. I felt sad as I walked to the aisle of Steff’s favorite cereals and sadder as I passed her favorite snacks. There was now no need to add these to my cart so I passed by quickly, but I couldn’t hold back my tears. I felt as empty as my cart looked. I finished shopping as quickly as I could, loaded the car, and sobbed all the way home.

Fall, my favorite season, was approaching, but my usual excitement wasn’t there. I stayed busy with my work and home projects, but no matter how hard I tried to move on, some emptiness stayed with me morning and night.

September (Journal entry)

I’m tired. I shed some tears as I went in Steff’s room tonight and plopped on her bed. It felt so familiar. The room smells of her fragrances and her high school book bag sits on the floor. I thank God for the relationship Steffany and I have and I tell myself that this is a normal stage to go through. This is a big transition for me. I believe I’ll get through it fine, but it seems so hard right now.

Steffany’s father and I are divorced and although Steffany lived with my husband and me, her father remained supportive and involved in her life. I wondered if he was feeling the same emptiness that I was. I felt a little relieved and more normal when I found that he, too, missed her and found himself phoning her at school often. Hearing this, I did not feel alone in my loneliness.

Not surprisingly, fathers seem to have the most difficulty in understanding and dealing with their emotions toward letting go of this era. Women seem more comfortable sharing their feelings openly with a good friend or family member, while fathers often keep their sadness to themselves. As a father from Maryland shared:

I’m trying to remain a strong shoulder for my wife to cry on when our little girl leaves for college. My biggest worry, though, is being strong enough for both her and myself!

Staying in Touch

I was fortunate to have a child who was happy at school. Indeed, I was the one suffering. To my surprise, I didn’t hear much from Steffany after she left for school. My thoughts were with her every day. I wondered about her classes, activities, new friends, and her overall adjustment to the university. I wanted to call to check on her but kept trying to tell myself that it wasn’t right to do this too frequently. After all, I didn’t want to clip her fledgling wings of independence! At the same time, I was feeling melancholy about her absence and didn’t want her to hear the sadness in my voice. When I would call, she was often busy and unable to talk and would tell me she would call me back. I would actually wait by the phone to receive her returned call and, in some instances, wait for a while before realizing that she had probably become distracted.

On these occasions, I would feel disappointed and somewhat rejected. I tried to tell myself I was pleased that she remained busy, but the reality was that I missed our chats and wondered if our bond was beginning to weaken. At times, I even felt angry. What happened to her commitment to call me back? I knew I would drop anything for her. Why wouldn’t she do the same for me? How important was I in her new life? Sometimes I felt worried. Is she all right? What if she is afraid to tell me otherwise?

I had many reflective moments during the absence of our personal contact. I put myself in my mother’s shoes when I remembered how I, as a busy young career woman, was always on the run. My mother would call, I would be too busy to talk, promise to return the calls, and sometimes let her down. I was now living the moments that my mom would warn me about when she would say, “Wait until you are a mother, you will understand.” That understanding had finally come.

Now, Steffany was in my younger, active shoes with a life that was full and less accessible to me. I was waiting at home, with a life that sometimes seemed in limbo or suspended. I began to feel powerless, lonesome, and neglected.

After a lot of internal turmoil with weeks of phone tag and abbreviated chats, I called Steffany and openly shared (in tears) that I missed our “visits” and badly needed one. I suddenly felt like the child crying out for the parent. Steffany, taken aback by my emotion, reacted at first with surprise but eventually with empathy and decisiveness.

Together, we set a time for our first, unhurried phone visit since we had been separated. This worked. We both seemed to enjoy our conversation and decided to schedule Sunday afternoons or evenings as our “visiting time.” It was not easy for me to admit my feelings to my daughter but I was glad I did it. I tried to openly share my needs without trying to make her feel guilty.

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