On empty nests, mountain overlooks, and the gentle ache of moving forward
This essay was also published by Quirky Rants on Medium (December 2025). Read it on Medium here.
It’s the last day of November. The holidays are in full swing — music, decorations, food. It’s one of the busiest times of year for everyone, and easy to get caught up in the season’s excitement. But it’s also a time for reflection.
On the ride home from my parents’ house last night, Robbie and I stopped at a popular overlook on Route 250, over Afton Mountain, to take in the view. It was quiet, the lights in the valley below just starting to twinkle, equal parts porch lights and Christmas decorations. The sun had already slipped behind the mountains, and the moon hung high on the horizon.
Several other cars had the same idea, and groups of people stood at the rock wall, watching in silence. It felt almost holy, like we were in church, worshipping the beauty nature laid out before us.
We didn’t stay for long. It was too cold and getting colder as the last of the light bled from the sky.
“Pretty,” Robbie said when we got to the car.
It was.
We came home to an empty house. Our oldest daughter, Hannah, was already back in Washington, DC; Olivia, working her job at Outback Steakhouse; Marcy, out for the night with her boyfriend, Phoenix. The dogs were happy to see us, but still, it felt empty and a little lonely.
We still have one child living full-time at home, but Marcy is a high school senior, with big dreams of going to college in a big city, leaving our country home — with all its charm — and our town — with all its backward ideas. At least that’s what Marcy says.
She’s a seventeen-year-old trans woman, living in rural Virginia, so I guess she has that right. We love and support her, but it’s hard to feel comfortable around people who want to erase you. I’m hopeful things will get better with our new governor, but Marcy’s ready to leave Augusta County behind. I hope she still comes back from time to time.
But she’s gone more than she’s home, and Robbie and I are starting to feel like empty nesters.
Maybe that’s why the valley felt especially quiet last night, as November faded out and December tiptoed in. The season is changing, not just on the calendar but in our home. There’s so much to look forward to — holiday dinners, family returning, the familiar rituals that come with the turning of the year. But there’s also a soft ache, the bittersweet knowledge that time is always moving us forward, ready or not.
As we drove down the mountain, I thought about all the Novembers that came before — the busy ones, the quiet ones, the ones when the house was bursting with noise. This year, there’s more space. More sky. More silence. It’s not unwelcome, just different.
I don’t know what December will bring. But I’m learning to say goodbye to what’s passing, even as I make room for what’s next. The mountains hold it all — the memories, the longing, the hope. Tonight, they held us, too, for just a moment, quiet and still as the end of November.
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