I’m writing this from Centre Parcs, surrounded by trees and bikes and the buzz of family life. I’m here with my teens and a not-quite-teen, doing all the fun things – cycling, swimming, forest adventures. They’re independent now. They can cycle themselves to the pool. They make their own lunch. One of them knows exactly how I take my tea. They can babysit the youngest, which means I can sneak off for a walk, a swim, or a yoga class. It’s honestly quite dreamy.
But I’ve found myself watching the young families. The ones with nappies and sun hats and tears. Mothers nursing around the edge of the pool, trying to soothe overtired toddlers. Dads pulling bike trailers stacked with snacks and soft toys. Children melting down from too much sun or sugar or overstimulation. And I remember it all. So clearly. It’s easy to look back and wax lyrical, because the cuteness is almost unbearable in hindsight – but it was also exhausting. There were beautiful moments, of course – pockets of magic – but it was hard. Really hard.
Now we’re in this sweet spot. That golden window when the children are old enough to be capable, and young enough to still be home. They can make coffee and put on pasta. They still sleep under our roof, still pile onto the sofa, still (mostly) want to come on holiday. If you’re lucky enough to have your parents still with you, this becomes a kind of generational tipping point. Your kids are growing up, your parents are growing older, and your own body starts shifting in ways you didn’t expect. Perimenopause starts to whisper – or shout – and your role, once so clearly defined, starts to morph again.
And in the middle of it all, there’s this quiet grief.
Not a sharp one – not like loss or tragedy. But a subtle ache. A slow releasing. The knowing that the days of small hands and bedtime stories are behind you. The knowing that you’ve done your job well, and because of that, they will leave. Maybe not right away – maybe not for years – but they can now. They could. And some do. Some leave at 18 and never really come back, beyond the occasional weekend visit. Even when they do, they come back as adults. With keys and plans and independence.
My eldest is 17 and a half. I can feel the change coming, and I know my second son will soon follow. It’s like a train that’s already left the station. There’s no slowing it down. My middle child has always chased the eldest – wanting to do what he does, go where he goes, be part of his world. And that world is about to expand beyond me. That’s exactly as it should be – but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.
I don’t want to sound spoiled or ungrateful. I know how privileged I am. Not everyone gets to see their children grow up. We live in a world where terrible things happen. Sickness, loss, unimaginable grief. I know what I have. And I honour it. But I also honour this ache. Because it’s real too.
Watching your child move out of dependency and into autonomy is a kind of death. A small, silent one. The end of a chapter that defined your identity for so long. They will always be our children – I see that clearly now in the way my own parents still worry, still call, still care. But something shifts.
At the same time, our bodies are changing. Hormones swinging, energy fluctuating, moods more tender than before. The way we’ve lived – our relationship with stress, dopamine, our nervous systems – all starts to show up now. Everything we ignored when we were too busy chasing toddlers or juggling work and school runs comes back for our attention.
So here we are. On the cusp of hormonal change, with one eye on the children leaving the nest, the other on our ageing parents, and our own hearts whispering for space, for rest, for understanding. It’s a lot. Especially for women. Especially if we’re working and caregiving and still holding so many emotional threads.
It does feel like there’s more space now to talk about it. Perimenopause isn’t hidden the way it once was. Maybe that’s just my algorithm – but it’s definitely out in the open more. There’s more compassion, more awareness. I speak about it with my children. With the people I work with. I don’t know how it will unfold for me, but I know that I want to move through it consciously. Gently. With support.
Because yes, what a gift it is – to have had the chance to love these little people so fiercely. To have known them in their first hours, their first steps, their first heartbreaks. To have built a life around them. The grief of letting them go is the price of having had them at all. And I’ll pay it, willingly, a thousand times over.
But I will also name it. Feel it. Honour it.
To be here – in this strange, beautiful, aching middle – is to live in a kind of sacred tension. One hand holding gratitude, the other holding grief. One foot in the world of mothering, the other stepping into something new. I want to savour it all.
Because this moment won’t last either.