My kid just went to college, and I’m now an empty nester. I don’t want to fill all my time with work.

Sayu Bhojwani’s child just started college.

Last month, I participated in a ritual familiar to thousands of American parents: college move-in day. On one of the hottest afternoons in August, I tucked the edge of a comforter between my child’s bed and the dorm room wall, which was painted an unwelcoming yellow. Then, our little family of three walked to seminars to help us navigate the college years. I rated the rationality of other parents’ questions, whispered snarky comments to my husband, and relied heavily on the framework offered by the presenter to deflect the emotions of that day.

The ritualistic goodbye curated by the college meant that all of us — students and families — exited a large gym at the same time onto grassy lawns, teary-eyed. Once again, I could deflect, observing and absorbing the emotions of other families and children. Many would be separated by thousands of miles; thankfully, we were only a two-hour drive away. We held each other, my husband, teenager, and I, and whispered our reassurances that we would see each other soon and were ready for this phase.

I wasn’t prepared for this phase of our lives

I had prepared to send my child to college, thinking of it as a temporary absence to enhance their development. I hadn’t prepared to accept the idea that their leaving is yet another toward adulthood, a long-term shift, an evolution of our family life from daily gathering to sporadic togetherness.

People try to comfort me by saying things like, “They never really leave,” or telling me we’ll be in contact often. But I don’t want that kind of false comfort. I want to engage in the stages of grief appropriate for this phase of my parenting — depression, and acceptance. My grief is not over the fact that they are in college, but that our family life is forever changed.

Everyone advises that I keep busy, and I have taken this advice by signing up for tennis lessons and Spanish classes. But I know that busyness will not fill the void I feel when I go to bed and can’t kiss my baby goodnight or hug them in the morning. The loss is not permanent, but it’s perpetual. Things will never be the same — for them, me, and us.

My thoughts take me all over the place. I think about my mother when all of her children left home at the same time to go to college, grad school, and boarding school. I long for the more traditional Indian family structure I rejected when I was younger, in which you lived at home until you married, and if you were male, you moved your wife in. I wish I had pressed harder for a gap year. And I wonder if having more children would make this any easier.

But I also want for them what I never had as a first-generation immigrant student — college life with all its drama and glory, freedom to indulge their intellectual curiosity, and the opportunity to individuate from us. I have longed for them to have these experiences, forgetting what I might lose in the process. Be careful what you wish for.

I hope we can still fall back into our comfortable family dynamic

People say it gets easier with time, and that you develop a new routine, a new normal. That when they come home, it actually disrupts the routine you’ve adopted without them. I am already familiar with how our dynamics change after being apart.

As the leader of a national organization focused on building a more inclusive democracy, I have traveled extensively for work. Not only did it get easier to do so as they got older and more independent, travel had its benefits. I enjoyed sleeping in and not having to think about meal prep while I was away.

Though It was hard to return to our usual rhythm after my husband or I had been away, or our child had been to camp, within a few hours — or at most, a day — we were back to being us. Now, when we reunite, just as I get used to our familiar rhythm, it will be disrupted by them leaving again, for weeks and months at a time.

I worry that I’ll fill the space left by my child with work

All of this worries and saddens me, but something else also plagues me. Without my child at home, I don’t know what I’ll have as a bulwark against work. Once I became a mother, I had a natural excuse to opt out of professional activities, especially those that fall in the large gray space between required and optional.

That networking event with other moms, this nonprofit gala, that conference that might result in new resources or opportunities — those things could all be weighed against quality time with my child. There’s no question that when it comes to my career, I am ambitious and aspirational. But the sense of urgency that often informs professional life is largely unnecessary unless you’re a healthcare professional or emergency aid worker. Family allowed me to have a clear decision-making framework about what mattered, especially around travel and evening events.

Absent this clarity, I feel unmoored and afraid that I’ll be tempted to fill the space created by this reconfiguration of our unit with work. However purposeful and satisfying my professional life can be, I want to hold on to that part of my life that’s not about producing, reacting, and managing people and problems. The part that enjoyed family game night, walks in the woods, cooking together, or binge-watching a favorite show. I’ve lost my favorite companion and gained so much time. My husband reminded me that I need more activity, not more work.

If my new bulwark is not my nuclear family unit, can it be me? While my child is individuating from us, I, too, want to individuate in ways that I couldn’t as an eldest daughter of immigrant parents. I’m not looking for hobbies to fill my time as much as I am aspiring to be a version of myself that is not defined by my family role or work. I’ve only seen glimpses of her over the years, and I can’t wait to get to know her better.