Nothing About This Nest Is Empty: Intentional Transition

"Nothing About This Nest Is Empty"

“Empty nester” is a phrase we use without thinking. Which is probably why no one stops to question what it actually implies.

It’s a strange phrase when you really stop and look at it. Loaded with assumptions we rarely examine. The word “empty” doing most of the work—suggesting absence, loss, something finished.

And more often than not, it lands squarely on her.

Why her?

Because the “nest,” whether we say it out loud or not, has always been hers. The one who kept it running, filled it, managed it, held it together.

So when it’s “empty”…what exactly is that supposed to mean?

That something is over? That something is missing?

That she is?

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If you missed Amy's other recent posts, you can find them here at Kitchen Table Conversations.

I’m speaking from experience.

I’m the “her.”

My nest has been empty for a few years now. I raised daughters, and like many families, we went through those in-between years—college, summers home, back and forth. A kind of emotional whiplash where they’re gone, then back, then gone again.

And then one day, that chapter closes too.

It’s bittersweet in a way that’s hard to fully explain—watching, knowing, feeling what it means to have launched two young women into their lives. Out of the proverbial nest.

And like any transition, there’s a honeymoon phase.

Instead of your days spent freezing on a soccer field, or your butt numb from sitting on bleachers, or mornings full of chaos, or those unexpected calls in the middle of the day—the broken bones, the colds, the heartbreaks, all of it…

You now have, well…time.

To do whatever. You. Please.

Imagine that.

It’s real. It’s energizing.

And then, like anything, it settles.

The novelty fades. Real life returns.

And what you’re left with isn’t empty.

It’s spacious.

In a way that can feel wide. Open.

And, at times, unfamiliar.

And you might not know what to do with it.

So I’m sharing this from that place—not as good or bad, just honest—some of what that spaciousness can hold.

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There’s spaciousness in the relationships.

What’s left is…well, you. And whoever you still live with. Probably the person you built this life with.

And they’re navigating this “empty nest” too—in their own way.

Their own shift in routine. Their own sense of freedom, or loss, or something in between.

Things have changed.

Even if you did all the “right” things along the way. Even if you had date nights. Even if you stayed connected. You can’t really prepare for this.

Because for years—decades, really—your relationship existed inside something larger.

A shared focus. A constant motion. A life being actively built and managed together.

And now, that layer is gone. That phase of life is behind you, and the way you operate together changes.

And what’s there now has more room. More visibility.

Which can feel good. And unfamiliar. And, at times, a little exposing.

Not because something is wrong. But because you’re both seeing things more clearly—without the buffer of everything that used to move between you.

Don’t be surprised by that.

But it doesn’t mean something is broken. It means something has shifted.

And like anything that shifts, it asks something new of you.

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There’s spaciousness in the house itself.

Rooms that are still full—but no longer in use the same way. Closets, drawers, corners that hold more than just things.

The high school sports gear. The art projects. The crafts. The stack of poster board you always kept on hand because someone, inevitably, needed something the night before.

The swim goggles and cap from junior year. The ballet shoes still tucked into the pink bag you thought she might go back to. The jibbitz from the purple crocs she wore to Disneyland. All the Webkinz—some still with the tags on. And, of course, everything an American Girl could need, want, or imagine.

You know they won’t need any of it anymore.

But that doesn’t mean you can just throw it out.

Because it’s not just stuff. It’s time. It’s memory. It’s entire seasons of your life—and theirs—sitting quietly on a shelf.

Tangible, but holding something you can’t touch anymore.

Versions of them—and of you—still there, but not accessible.

Almost like little ghosts of a life that isn’t lived that way anymore.

Not waiting, exactly. But not fully gone either.

And you will be tempted to do one of two things. Or both. Clear it all out, or keep it all there.

There’s no wrong answer.

For me, there was something freeing about clearing space.

And something unexpectedly hard about being the one who had to decide do it.

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And then there’s the spaciousness that belongs to you.

This one is big.

If you’re like me, it might feel disorienting at first. Not bad. Not good. Just…different and unfamiliar.

You’re still a mother. That doesn’t change.

But you’re no longer needed in the same constant, immediate way.

And that creates spaciousness—real spaciousness—for something else.

And that “something” isn’t always clear.

The questions start small.

What do I want (like, for dinner)?

And then, without warning, they get bigger.

What do I actually want (like, for the rest of my life)?

And you may not have an answer to either.

That doesn’t mean something is wrong.

It means something is opening.

This is where you start to trust yourself. And actually listen.

Because you’re not just adjusting to a quieter house, or a different rhythm, or even a different relationship.

You’re face to face with a version of yourself that hasn’t had much room—until now.

And just like any good relationship, there’s no shortcut for that.

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So no, it’s not empty.

And we should probably stop calling it that.

Because this phase isn’t about what’s gone. It’s about what’s here now.

Spacious.

Open.

Alive in a different way.

And maybe that’s the point.

Not to rush to fill it.

Not to define it too quickly.

But to let it be what it is—

And see what has room to emerge.

Your Stuff Is Not Just Stuff: Intentional Living Guide

"Your Stuff Is Not Just Stuff"

There’s a moment—usually when you’re not even looking for it—when your things stop feeling neutral.

You pick something up, or even just look at it, and instead of seeing what it is, you feel what it carries. The memory. The association. The version of you it’s tied to.

Because your environment is never neutral. It’s in constant conversation with your nervous system.

And that’s when you realize—this was never just about stuff.

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If you missed Amy's other recent posts, you can find them here at Kitchen Table Conversations.

A lot of us grew up in a different kind of world.

Buying wasn’t frictionless. You went to the store. You thought about it. You saved for it. Marketing was something you passed on a billboard, not something that followed you, studied you, and learned you.

Now we can have almost anything within hours. And the people selling it to us often understand our desires—and our insecurities—better than we do.

So we buy.

We build lives that look full. Closets, kitchens, drawers, shelves—all filled with things that were supposed to make life better, easier, more complete.

And for a while, it works.

Until it doesn’t.

It becomes too much.

Not only because of how much we have—but because of how often we’re being affected by it.

Every object is asking for something, even if it’s just a reaction.

Overwhelmed.

Overstimulated.

Out of control.

Tired.

Not enough.

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There was a dress I used to love.

Black and white houndstooth. Tailored perfectly. The kind of dress that made me feel capable, prepared, pulled together. I wore it to an important business meeting.

And that day became one of the worst professional moments I’ve ever experienced.

The dress didn’t change. But what it holds did.

Now when I see it, I don’t think about how it fits. It reminds me of that day. That moment. That version of myself.

And I have to ask—why would I keep something that takes me right back there?

Maybe you have something like that too.

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Some things I’ve let go of in ways that might sound extreme.

I’ve burned clothes.

Clothes I wore on the days I had to say goodbye to my dogs. Days that held a kind of love and weight that doesn’t need explaining—if you’ve been there, you know.

Those clothes carried it. Not just sadness—but the magnitude of that moment.

And I knew I couldn’t wear them again. They weren’t meant to be worn anymore. Not because I wanted to forget—but because that kind of moment doesn’t belong in an ordinary Tuesday.

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And then there are the things that show up differently.

Not tied to one moment—but there, every day.

The KitchenAid mixer. The one that reminds you of the person you think you should be—the one who bakes from scratch, who shows up with something homemade instead of something in a box.

The jeans that technically fit—but only if you’re standing. Close, but not quite there.

Exercise equipment you don’t use. Unread books. Recipes saved for someday.

Or the things you keep because you spent too much money on them—quiet reminders that you got it wrong. You wasted money. You believed something you shouldn’t have.

None of it demands your attention. But it’s always there.

And every time you see it, something in you responds—even if you don’t consciously notice it.

A slight tightening. Something in you bracing, just a little.

And over time, that adds up.

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We’re often told to ask, “Does it bring you joy?”

But that question doesn’t always go far enough.

A better question is:

What does this make me feel?

Not in theory—but when you actually see it, touch it, live with it.

Because your body answers that question before your mind does.

Because sometimes the answer is simple.

Not enough.

Not yet.

You should be more.

You got this wrong.

And once you start noticing that, it’s hard to unsee.

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Living intentionally, in a world of stuff, isn’t about having less for the sake of it.

It’s more than just finding your keys, or the best closet organization system, or the right baskets and containers.

It’s about creating a space that supports you.

A space that reflects who you are now.

That means keeping what feels like alignment, and letting go of what feels like pressure.

It means paying attention to what in your space feels grounding—and what feels like it’s keeping score.

It also changes how you bring things in—not from restriction, but from honesty.

Do I actually want this?

Or do I want what I think this says about me?

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Because the way you live starts to change when you make decisions this way.

You bring in less of what you don’t need. You hold onto fewer things out of guilt, cost, or expectation.

And what’s left starts to feel different.

Not empty. Not minimal for the sake of it.

Just… intentional.

A space that supports you.

A space where the things around you feel like you—how you live, what you enjoy, what you reach for without thinking.

Things you actually like. That you chose. That feel good to see, to use, to live with.

Things that carry something positive. Or nothing at all.

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And that changes the experience of being in your space.

You’re not managing it. You’re not reacting to it.

You’re just… in it.

If you missed Amy's other recent posts, you can find them here at Kitchen Table Conversations.

When Did This Start? The Art of Paying Attention to Birds

"Paying Attention to Birds"

Have birds changed or are we just noticing them?

Because I’ve been fascinated with birds lately.

Not in a “this is my new hobby” way. Just in the morning, with coffee, looking out the window, and somehow getting pulled into whatever is happening out there.

There’s a feeder. It’s squirrel-proof, but there’s always a squirrel getting into it anyway. And then there are the robins, already out there doing whatever it is they do this time of year—which, apparently, is figuring out where to nest. Around here, that starts now, and by June there are hungry babies.

None of that is new.

So why does it feel like it is?

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If you missed Amy's other recent posts, you can find them here at Kitchen Table Conversations.

Maybe it’s just spring.

This is when birds are the most active. That part is real.

But the more you pay attention, the less random it sounds.

What I used to think of as just background noise is actually more specific than that.

Some of it is territorial—marking space. Some of it is about mating. And they don’t just have one sound—they change it depending on what they’re doing.

When you sit and really listen, eyes closed, it’s obviously intelligent.

Even the timing of it—early morning isn’t random. The air is quieter, the sound carries further. So what feels calm on our end is actually a lot happening on theirs.

And then you realize you can actually figure some of it out. There are apps now that will listen and tell you what bird you’re hearing. You hold up your phone and suddenly it’s not just “a bird,” it’s a specific one, with its own patterns and habits.

Which is a strange thing to find yourself doing.

And once you know even a little of it, it’s hard to go back to not hearing it.

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Or it’s something else entirely.

There’s also the part people don’t always say out loud.

That birds can start to feel… meaningful.

Certain ones show up and it doesn’t quite feel random. A hawk circling overhead. A cardinal landing nearby.

And then your brain goes a step further than it used to.

You start to wonder if the hawk means something. If it’s someone.

You think about your dog—gone a few years now—and then, there’s that cardinal again.

Is that a coincidence?

Only if you believe that it is.

And maybe you do. Or maybe you don’t.

And that’s new too.

At the same time, there’s actual science behind the idea that they’re responding to things we don’t see.

Magnetic fields. Air currents. Subtle shifts in the environment. They’re navigating with information we don’t consciously have.

So they are, in a real sense, tuned into something else.

Not in a way we need to define.

Just… something we’re not part of in the same way.

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Or maybe we’re just noticing.

Maybe nothing changed.

Maybe we’re just noticing.

And there’s a part of that that’s easy to resist.

Because paying attention to birds feels like something that belongs to a different category of person. People with time. People who aren’t in the middle of everything anymore.

Not us.

And yet.

They are kind of incredible.

And we’re standing there, watching them, having thoughts about them we probably wouldn’t have had before.

So maybe the category was off.

Maybe it was never about “old people liking birds.”

Maybe it was about something else that comes with time.

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Because this has all been happening the entire time.

The same patterns. The same movement. The same songs, every spring. Generations of it, right outside, whether we were paying attention or not.

The whole time.

And our attention was somewhere else.

On what was next. On what needed to get done. On everything that felt more immediate, more important.

And now, for whatever reason, it isn’t.

Or at least, not all of it is.

Now there’s space to see this too.

Not as a replacement for everything else.

Just alongside it.

The fact that there’s this constant layer of life happening—organized, active, repeating itself—right outside.

And always has been.

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So no, I don’t think birds have changed.

But I do think it’s worth paying attention to the moment when you realize you have.