Homesick at Home

On missing someone before they’ve even left

Deborah:

This week, I’m thrilled to introduce you to one of my favorite Substack writer-friends, The Therapist Who Came Undone. TTWCU pulls back the curtain on the inner life of a therapist and her experiences on both sides of the couch, writing with relatable and human honesty, tenderness, and warmth.

On a personal note, we’ve also connected over the experience of sending our sons to college. (If you missed it, check out our recorded Live Chat!) Two points of connection there: we both have sons graduating high school this year (though unlike me, hers is a middle child, whereas my graduate is my first and only) and we discovered her firstborn attends a small, selective liberal arts college where I live and where my own son will also be attending - despite living 3000 miles apart!

Since this is my first experience of launching a child and concluding the routines of public schooling, and since this weekend we’re actively celebrating that graduation with family joining us from across the country, I invited TTWCU to share her wonderful writing with you here this week. I know you’ll appreciate the intimacy of her voice while I’m off wiping smeared mascara and hugging my teen an uncomfortable amount. (And please do go check out her Substack if you like what you read here)!

Take it away, my friend!

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The Therapist Who Came Undone:

Yesterday, I had a small run-in with my middle son.

He was annoyed with me because I didn’t have time to pick up the dinner he wanted. It came out sharper than it needed to, a little entitled, and it stayed with me. Not enough to turn into a real conflict, but enough that I couldn’t quite let it go.

A few hours later, I pulled him aside from where he was sitting with his girlfriend and asked if we could talk. I told him the way he’d spoken to me had hurt my feelings. I barely got the words out before he apologized. It wasn’t defensive or dismissive, just immediate and sincere.

He told me he’d been hangry, that he hadn’t recognized it until later. Then he told me he loved me and wrapped me up in one of his big, warm, long-armed hugs. Two of me can fit in his arms, but somehow he still feels like my little boy. The whole thing was quick and easy. Repairs with him almost always are.

A few minutes later, I went in to say goodnight to him and his girlfriend. They were doing homework in the bonus room when I walked in, but somehow I ended up sitting down with them, talking about everything and nothing for the next hour. We talked about school, plans for the future, the apparent accent my entire family speaks with, and other random stories. It was the kind of conversation that stretches without effort.

Nothing about it was remarkable, and that’s what I can’t stop thinking about.

My middle guy has always been my steady. He’s never been the loudest voice in the room or the one pulling for attention, but he’s always been there, grounded and easy to be with. For eighteen years now, he has moved through our days without creating much friction. He is woven into the rhythm of our life; the quick repairs, the easy affection, the way he moves in and out of rooms and conversations.

I joke with him that I’m going to sneak into his suitcase and sleep on his dorm room floor. He rolls his eyes and laughs. He knows how much I’m going to miss him. He also knows how happy I am for him. He’s heading to a school he worked hard to get into, a place he’s genuinely excited about. His life is opening up in all the ways I want for him.

Even though I’ve already sent one child to college, all of this still feels new.

The path my oldest took was so different. The road he was on had already pulled him in another direction long before he packed his bags. At fifteen, he had a mental health crisis that led us to send him to residential treatment. He was gone for over a year. We let him go without knowing if we would get him back, or who we would be when he returned.

We worked impossibly hard, individually and as a family, when he came home. The road wasn’t straight, but we moved forward and built something stronger. This year, he moved across the country to attend his dream school. I didn’t anticipate his leaving with dread. Sending him off in health stood in such stark contrast to sending him away in crisis that it was difficult to access anything but joy. I miss him, of course, but I feel overwhelmingly grateful to watch him soar.

Watching my middle son leave feels different.

There’s no dramatic break, just the reality that the person who has been my steady, who has shaped the feel of our home in ways I’m only now beginning to understand, will not be here in the same way. I’m not losing him. I know that. He’s going exactly where he should be, toward a life that is his, not mine.

For me, though, losing this version of us, the one built out of ordinary days, small frictions, easy repairs, and shared space that never required effort or planning, is anything but easy. I can feel it already, this strange kind of homesickness. Not for a place, but for a rhythm, for a presence that is still here, still part of everything, and yet, already beginning to change.

I won’t hear his footsteps coming down the stairs. I won’t find myself pulled into those easy, unplanned conversations at the end of the night. I won’t get the quick repair, the casual “I love you,” the long-armed hug that brings me back in time.

But for now, he’s still here. Still within arm’s reach. Still someone I can sit down beside without planning it.

I find myself paying attention in a different way. Not trying to hold on tighter, but noticing more. Letting myself take it in while it’s happening.

Our home is changing. I can feel that.

The love that built it, though, and the love that lives inside it, isn’t going anywhere.