I thought my next post would be about empty nesting—my feelings during the drop off of my youngest at college in another state, and struggling to cope with the empty spaces and extra time in my life, trying to remember what it’s like to be me without being in daily mom mode.
It all sounds so trivial now.
Life had different hard lessons to teach me. Empty nesting is nothing compared to a medical emergency. Keeps everything in perspective.
I have two daughters. My oldest is 27 and lives in northern California, relocated there during her college internship in documentary film editing (my husband and I live in Massachusetts).
That last week of August was the first week I was supposed to go back to teaching after summer break. It was also when we were supposed to move our youngest to college in another New England state, and the following week we’d celebrate the launch of my book 2 of The Warning Series (THE FALLOUT).…
But then my oldest was hospitalized in California and needed an intensive surgery on her digestive system. A surgery connected to her preemie birth surgery almost thirty years ago.
Hello, and welcome to the motherfucking irony of my empty nesting—I had to revisit birth trauma from when I was 19.
It was a clusterfuck of schedules and needs, and I felt ripped in half. It was literally everything, everywhere, all at once.
At first, it seemed like my oldest might be okay in a few days with medical treatments, but if not, the major surgery was looming. And I wanted to be there for her, and for my youngest sitting next to me on her way to her freshman year of college.
I went back to teaching for two days, met my new students for this year, and kept a smile on my face. My oldest celebrated her 27th birthday in the hospital with her boyfriend and us on WhatsApp. I did what I could from a distance to make her feel special. I felt like shit for not already being in California with her.
My husband and I managed to get our youngest off to college. There were tears at the drop off, but they were happy and nostalgic, not fear-based like I expected. Again, life had put things into sharp perspective.
One day after dropping my youngest off at college, I flew across the country to California, my mothering instincts in overdrive, knowing intuitively that surgery was imminent. I left my husband to care for the house and pets, and I took a temporary FMLA leave from teaching. A sub could handle my students. My publisher could handle my book launch. Only I could be her mother.
I lived out of her hospital room for the next two weeks since thankfully they had a 24-hour visiting policy. She had major surgery on Labor Day, the irony of the word “labor” not lost on me.
Her boyfriend was a godsend and brought me to an outdoor local garden shop instead of sitting in the surgical waiting area during her three-hour surgery. We share a love a plants, so he knew the kind of mental health break we needed. We spent that tense time under a clear blue sky surrounded by gorgeous flowers.









It’s been a full circle moment for all of us. I’m not going to rehash the medical details here. Thankfully, my oldest daughter will make a full recovery after spending almost a month in the hospital, and my youngest loves college so far.
Three realizations happened during this family crisis.
One—a friend told me to go outside every day for an hour and walk around. So I did. The hospital wasn’t located in a good area for walking, so I strolled around the parking lot and forced myself to listen to happy pop music on my phone. Then I noticed the trees.
Or they noticed me.
Hmm…
I looked up as they hung over me, and I felt a wave of safety flow through me under their canopies. I snapped photos along my walks, touched their bark, sat underneath them. They gave me strength and reminded me of growth, life, spirit, and time.






It was then that I truly realized how much gardening and spending time in nature has given to me. I hadn’t traveled alone since I discovered my love of plants, and in that moment, I felt the life, the love, the wisdom, and the connectivity of the trees in my state, and the trees across the country—it was as if they were speaking to me in another language and I understood for the first time because I had learned how to listen and care for them.
Let’s go back to that friend who told me to go outside. The second thing that this crisis reminded me was that we have more people in our lives rooting for us than we realize, if we are humble enough to ask for help.
I hate asking for help. During my childhood, I fought for independence at any expense. Relying on others meant I wouldn’t have survived. But when my own adult child needed serious help, the mother in me sought the love of others in full force.
I am also a really private person (ha, saying that while writing a blog is kinda hilarious), and I tend to keep my friends at a safe distance, not mixing friendships with family. Again, self protection from childhood, no doubt. But I needed to vent my feelings to friends who would understand. We all need that type of friend—those who have been through hell and back and are still standing, the ones who never judge, who are never shocked by anything and always have a way to get you laughing again. Talking and/or writing during traumatic events helps to process the information and lessen the blow. It’s the power of narrative. So I relied on texting and calling the same three friends who I knew had medical experience from situations in their past and would lend me their strength and wisdom.
These people are the trees in my life.
Finally, motherhood does not end when your kids leave the house. Motherhood is a force that resides inside you and breaks forth like a phoenix’s flame when summoned. It doesn’t fade—it deepens and spreads like roots you sowed years ago into the world. This event reminded me how far I’ve come as a teen mother, and how fucking resilient I am. So too are my daughters, and so too are my dear friends.
And so too are you.
Who are the trees in your life?
Absolutely beautiful, Kristy!
I hope your daughter's recovery is swift and offers her a better quality of life after, with no repeat issues. 🤞
It's interesting how trauma plays out differently for each of us. Maybe neurotype plays a role here, but although I was fiercely independent, I still had a desperate need for my father's approval of all my friends, and any lover I thought could be more than a booty call. Yet, 15 years later, I couldn't care less what my father thinks about much of anything, let alone the people I surround myself with. (Although, it probably helps that one of his teases are, "Is s/he a liberal?" as he cackles into the receiver any time I've met a new potential friend. I roll my eyes, and generally respond, "It's Seattle, Dad. What do you think?" I don't know why I still entertain him sometimes....)
As an almost teen-mom, and a mom to three—one teen and two preteens—this message was heartening, but also saddening. Several health issues run in our family, and I had kids too young to discover these particular brands of issues beforehand. So we're all in this early stage of learning and understanding what our bodies and minds can and can't do, together. It's scary, feeling like I'm stumbling around in the dark when I "should" know what to do for and with my kids' care—I should have brought a flashlight, but I didn't know I'd need one. (So much for that over-stuffed "Mom Bag" I still schlep around, even though my kids are perfectly capable of carrying items for their own needs. I just can't help it, it seems.)
And for someone who looks ahead, excited for my empty-nest future, this offered me a surprising sense of calm: "...motherhood does not end when your kids leave the house. Motherhood is a force that resides inside you and breaks forth like a phoenix’s flame when summoned. It doesn’t fade—it deepens and spreads like roots you sowed years ago into the world." As much as I complain about the trials of motherhood, being their mom has been a gift. And although I am still excited for time alone with my husband for the first time in our history together, I feel tranquility in simply knowing that my kids will have their mother past their teen years. That I'll do everything in my power to be at their bedside in the hospital—if that day ever was to come—when they're in their 20s, 30s, and hopefully beyond.
This was inspiring, Kristy.. Thank you. 💝
Hugs to you Kristy! And continued healing for your daughter. 💕I felt the power of your love for your family as well as the enormity of your feelings during this immensely challenging time. Tears in my eyes by the end. I’ll be thinking about your question and my friendships for a long time. Who are the trees in my life? There’s a poem hiding in your post. 💜