My daughter and I are in the car chatting about a friend of hers who is a year younger and just now entering the absolute marathon of senior year. “It was the best year of high school, I had the most fun, but I cannot imagine doing it all over again,” she says, looking out the window. “It was exhausting. And expensive,” she adds with a sidelong glance at me.

One year ago, we were just starting to climb that hill together – senior pictures, senior prom, college applications, and graduation. Today, our living room is a staging area of boxes, bags, and college spreadsheets. We have two and a half weeks.

I read an Instagram post about this, the ‘lighthouse’ era of motherhood. For the past year (way longer, of course) I was in the boat with her, rowing hard over waves and smooth seas, sun and storms. Soon, I’ll step out of that little boat and she’ll sail on and I’ll be on the shore, trying to be the lighthouse that helps guide her from a farther distance. I like the metaphor but the transition is not easy. To be honest, I am not “handling” this on any kind of emotional level. Instead, I am in the mode of putting one foot in front of the other and focusing only on the tasks and the checklists, staying upbeat and positive, and not even thinking about what I will feel like when my whole heart – my person – the little life that has been the driving force behind all of my decisions, all of my actions and priority and motivation – is no longer living down the hall. I don’t know how I’m going to feel on move-in day when I drive there with her and I drive home alone. To make matters more intense, my long-term partner in life has accepted a job out of state, so we are transitioning from a “normal” couple sharing space to a couple that remains committed in a domestic partnership but spends 3-4 days a week apart.

Even though I’m an introvert and have no problems spending a lot of time alone, the empty nest will really be quite empty, once the change happens.