Last month at this time I was about to become an empty nester. On the 20th of August, my husband and I brought my two adult daughters up to college. They moved into an apartment of their very own over 200 miles away from the home where they have lived since they were born.

A month ago my heart was breaking, and I was doing my best to hide it. I wanted my girls to be happy. I didn’t want to rain on their parade. I wanted to be happy for them. I also believed, and still believe, that I should be happy with and proud of myself. I raised two daughters who felt secure enough to move into an apartment together over four hours away from home. I resisted the temptation to do or say anything that would keep them closer to me. I encouraged them to follow their hearts. I tried to make it clear it would not be a catastrophe if they didn’t get into their first choice. I had done everything I could to support them in pursuit of their goals without pressuring them.

Like Galadriel in The Lord of the Rings after she resisted the offer to carry the One Ring, I thought, “I have passed the test. I will diminish, and go into the West, and remain Galadriel.”

There is no doubt that raising children, for all its joys and satisfactions, is a test. It is sometimes a daily test of patience, understanding, kindness, and unconditional love. It is keeping quiet when you know you don’t have helpful words. It is speaking up when you would be betraying your conscience by staying silent–even if it makes your kids judge you, or hate you for a little while. I remember a conversation in the car one afternoon where I must have said something that offended one of my children and she said, “You’re not the person I thought you were.”

“Good,” I said. “I’m glad you’re realizing that I am a flawed human being with thoughts and feelings that don’t always fit into your preconception of what a mother should be. We can disagree. We can see things differently. We can talk about them. Because I am not perfect, and neither are you. And as you grow up you will see that there is a lot we can learn from each other, often in areas where we disagree.”

Parenthood is picking your battles. It’s choosing when to raise your voice and when to whisper. It’s deciding when to retreat and when to stand in the way. There’s rarely a right answer. The fallout of a wrong decision can feel like the end of the world. Standing up to a teenager’s glare is not for the weak. Being looked at by someone you would give your life for as if you are a roach that crawled into their cereal is a devastation. And the only way I survived was some version of the mantra, “This is not about you. This too shall pass. All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well. You’re doing the best you can with the resources and knowledge you have at this moment. They’re figuring it out, and if hating you for a time is what they need to figure it out, let them hate you. Love will win in the end.”

It’s that last part–that love will win in the end–that keeps me going, even now. I have to believe that the love with which I raised my girls, the love with which I teach my students, the love I try to show in every action, every word, every gesture, every day (especially in a contentious political season) will win in the end. And though the primary recipients of that love may have left the nest, I have to believe that the love will endure. It may not necessarily to come back to me, but if it moves forward into the world, I have done my job.

Two nights before we left my younger daughter came up to me and asked, “How many stuffed animals can I take with me to college?”

When her sister started college two years before she was going into a dorm, sharing a room with one other person and a bathroom with three more. Because she would have no space to truly call her own, I cautioned her not to take too many things. She’d never really know who was coming into and out of her room. She’d also have to move out whatever she brought at year’s end. But this time the girls were going into an apartment they’d only share with each other.

“Technically,” I replied, “you can take them all. I mean, we told your sister to limit herself because she was in a shared space. You’ll have your own room, and the only shared space will be with your sister. So really, take what you’d like.”

She looked at me, smiling, then said, “Good! I don’t want any of them to feel lonely!” and skipped down the hall back to her room.

That moment nearly broke me, because I did not see a young woman skip down the hall. I saw the preschooler who always took at least one stuffed animal in her backpack everywhere she went. And that child was leaving my home in a manner of days.

So yes, I cried. A lot. I cried so much I had to tell my work friends not to ask me about it so I wouldn’t break down in front of my students. And the next day I brought the girls up to college.

The joy of watching them enter their apartment, of seeing their excitement, of watching them set up their own little household, of listening to them talk about the meals they were going to make, of laughing as they danced around their new space was immense. It sustained me through the three trips to Walmart in a 24 hour period to get them set in their apartment with things ranging from shower curtains to food; the two day process of helping move in and unpack everything; and the Friday night farewell.

But when I got back in the car with my husband that night, I ugly-cried. Full out sobs for about fifteen minutes. My older daughter, who tracks us, texted, “Are you still in the parking lot?” My husband replied, “Mom needs a moment. We’ll text you when we get back to the room.” About five minutes later, I took a deep breath, centered myself, and got us safely back to our hotel. The clerks had clearly seen many teary-eyed parents. “Rough day?” one asked.

“Moved the kids into their new apartment,” my husband replied.

“Empty nest now?”

“Yep.”

But the truth actually is that my nest is not empty. I very fortunately still have my husband. But one thing I didn’t realize until today, on my drive home talking to my mom before writing this post, is that I still have ME. My nest is not empty because yes, my husband is here, but also because I’m here. I’m still in my nest. Like Galadriel, I remain myself. And there is a chance that now, if I allow it, I can become even more myself.

Facing the emptiness of my home when the kids left translated to believing that I might be facing the emptiness of my life. And yes, it could go that way. But I’d rather it not. So what I’m planning to do, instead, is allow myself to fill it. If Walt Whitman was correct in writing, “I contain multitudes,” then in the same part of that poem he was also right in saying “The past and present wilt—I have fill’d them, emptied them./And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.” For I have filled and emptied decades of my life, but there are still decades left to unfold. And I can fill them not with more kids or work or possessions or money or stress. I can fill them with more me. I can be enough.

I do not need to plan, or worry, or anticipate every possible catastrophe a day, a week, a month, a year, or a decade can bring. I can live in the moment. I can enjoy writing a blog post without worrying that dinner will be late. I can enjoy teaching without worrying that my child might need me for something. I can enjoy a lunch, dinner or movie out with my husband without rushing to get home. I can watch a tv show without worrying that someone in the household will be exposed to something inappropriate. I can sweep things off the kitchen counters without anyone asking me later where their stuff went. I can take a nap on a chair with a cat without waking with a start thinking I have to pick someone up from somewhere. I can embody my own space, grow within myself, and allow myself to fill my space.

So here’s to filling the next fold of my future. I hope it’s going to be a mighty wonderful adventure.