This September my child went to college. My only child (who is actually no longer a child). My daily household shrunk by 33%. I spent the last year trying to prepare myself for the strangeness that would be a house without him home every night, a schedule without all his activities, a day without his voice. I was only moderately successful.

I am (at least) two things that require more than 50% of who I am. Being a mother, I would argue requires at least 99% of who you are, if not more. And being an artist requires probably about 90%. For 18 years, I have juggled the math on both these things to try to do each one well. I rearranged schedules, set boundaries, drew inspiration, and created space for both these things simultaneously, along with the myriad of other things that I am. I have been 189% of a person just in these two spaces of life. I knew that this was a temporary part of living, that the challenge and goal of raising a child is to send that sweet being out into the world to live and grow and become the person they are meant to be. And I also knew, from the wisdom and experience of those around me, that this is easier said than done.

The past couple of months have been bittersweet and eyeopening. I have absolutely loved the glimpses I get into my son’s college life – hearing him talk about classes and friends, challenges and craziness. It’s been good for my soul. He is thriving, and that in turn inspires me to thrive. But I’m not going to sugarcoat the tiny kernel of sadness that simply sits there because I miss having him around. It’s the cherished sadness of loving someone missing in your daily life. But I knew I would be sad. What I hadn’t really realized was just how much I had changed my habits and practice as an artist over the past several years. I had grown used to wrapping my identity as an artist around my identity as a mom (yes, I know I’m still a mom, but not with the same everyday intensity). I had patterns of creation that are now missing, rituals of inspiration shored up with bits and pieces of momming things that now need different foundations. The challenge of being a mother (and artist) is changing the percentages at the right times, in the right ways. That’s the equation that I am in the middle of. I’ve been experimenting with what this new phase looks like, the schedules, the new constants, the new variables. What new things I have a little space for now and what remains solidly fixed into my creative process.

As I’m looking around my studio, I can feel a growing energy and excitement. I can see the potential in the new painting on the easel. I can smell the ink (that I didn’t clean up yesterday) on the bench. I can touch the newly cut paper ready and waiting to become something beautiful. When I climb the stairwell to my studio, I’m bringing 100% of who I am in a new way. All the conflicting feelings of being a mother without her child around, all the anxiety and hope of new time and new endeavors – all of it comes with me.

People used to tell me that everything changes when you’ve got an empty nest, so be prepared. It’s true. Pretty much everything is different. But the more I’m looking around, the more I’m realizing just how full and vibrant my nest is. I built it year by year, balancing motherhood with creating, until it could hold so much more than I ever thought. And now, woven into my little nest, the branches are resprouting.