By Jody Gifford, guest contributor

A few weeks ago, comedian Jon Stewart joined Michelle Obama and Craig Robinson on the IMO podcast when the conversation turned to parenting. Stewart, a father of two adult children, spoke almost wistfully about how his children “gave a meaning and pattern to his life” before they flew the nest. Obama, a mother of two adult daughters herself, flatly disagreed.

“I love them. I’m gonna see them tonight for dinner but yeah. Barack cried when they went to college. I was like, ‘Bye, little … goodbye,’” she said. “Now Friday nights aren’t wrecked with terror and fear about ‘Where are you?’ ‘Where ARE you?’ I love their emancipation and growth.”

It was a hot take many on the internet took offense to. Obama was labeled “cold,” “narcissistic” and “out of touch” for her commentary. Others celebrated and applauded her candor.

This exchange hit close to home. I had just sent all three of my kids — ages 20, 18 and 18 — off to college that week. The shift in my home and my life was noticeable. It wasn’t just a milestone, it was a seismic event I’d anticipated for nearly two decades. And yet, with all that time and preparation, I’d realized I wasn’t truly ready.

I was promised immediate relief, but instead I struggled. For months, especially those last few of the summer, I’d run the marathon of domestic chaos, attending all the school events, planning for commencement and a grad party, furnishing and stocking dorm rooms, tackling financial aid and orientation and helping the twins transition from high school to college. My nervous system was shot, and my emotions ran high all the while trying to remain present and engaged for the firsts and lasts.

The first night alone, I cried when I walked past the empty rooms at the top of the stairs. The second night, I made enough food for my family of five, not the two of us sitting at the dining room table. By day three, I actually missed the constant hum of the washing machine and the endless background chatter of three distinct human beings growing up under my roof. And now? Deafening silence.

I wasn’t losing my mind; I was navigating one of the most profound transitions of my life. There was no playbook, no instruction manual, just a DIY opportunity to figure things out without the kids around.

Unfortunately, the moment the last kid packed up their car, it felt like my personal life became public domain. Neighbors, friends, relatives, acquaintances and coworkers all started asking variations of the same question:

“So, how are you handling the empty nest?”

“What are you going to do with all that free time?”

“Isn’t it nice to finally be child-free?’

It was utterly exhausting. Every single comment forced me to perform an emotional self-evaluation on command. If I admitted I’d cried while cleaning the girls’ bathroom (that happened!), I’d get pitied looks. If I said I was “fine,” I risked sounding cold or nonchalant.

What people didn’t realize is that pointing out my empty house over and over forced me right back into the center of the loss when I was just trying to get through the day. I didn’t need commentary on the silence: I was living in it.

When society talks about the “empty nest,” it’s usually focused on the logistical shift: fewer groceries to buy, less laundry to fold, more free time, more disposable income. In reality, I’d hit a full-blown identity crisis. Motherhood was my executive role, my daily schedule and my primary purpose in life. I spent nearly 20 years as the COO of three human lives — managing schedules, emotional crises, nutritional and medical needs, education, activities and future planning. My brain was hardwired to think in the plural.

When my kids headed off to college, my operational role shrank overnight. I didn’t stop being their mom — that identity never leaves — but the job description changed instantly from full-time operational manager to freelance consultant.

When the daily routines vanished, an unnerving question surfaced: Who am I when nobody needs me to make dinner, sign the permission slips, buy the prom dress or drive them to practice?

It’s all so completely disorienting. I’m mourning a season of life that was loud, exhausting, beautiful and demanding, while standing in an in-between space where my next season hasn’t fully formed yet.

What I’m discovering while everyone else offers me back pats and pity nods is that, as Obama said, an empty nest is eventually liberating. As the impact of this transition starts to settle, I’m realizing this chapter isn’t about what I lost, it’s about the radical recovery of myself.

For years, my brain was constantly tracking three other people. Now, for the first time in years, my mental bandwidth belongs entirely to me. I can read a book without being interrupted. I can leave a room exactly as it is and find it in the same condition hours later. I get to decide what my days look like without accommodating three differing social calendars, practice schedules and food preferences. If I want cereal for dinner at 8 p.m., I eat the dang cereal.

Who was I before I was orchestrating school schedules? What hobbies did I shed because there simply wasn’t time? Reclaiming my identity isn’t about inventing a brand-new persona from scratch; it’s about dusting off the parts of myself that I paused while I was raising my children.

Watching my young people step into the world was terrifying, but it was always the ultimate goal. My relationship with them is shifting from directive management to adult friendship. The phone calls where they ask for advice — not because they have to, but because they value my perspective — are infinitely sweeter than the chaotic nights and weekends of the past.

I’ve decided I don’t need to instantly “reinvent myself” or launch a brand new path this month.

I’m giving myself grace. It’s OK to feel sad about the end of an era while simultaneously being fiercely proud of the adults I raised. It’s OK to roll my eyes when people ask how I’m doing with the quiet house. And it’s completely OK if I don’t know exactly who I am in this moment.

The house is quiet because I succeeded. I built three humans capable of stepping out into the world. The quiet isn’t an empty void; it’s a clean slate waiting for whatever I decide to put on it next.

Jody Gifford is a freelance writer, communications strategist and public relations professional based in West Des Moines. She owns For a Good Clause, an initiative dedicated to amplifying diverse voices through storytelling. Jody holds an M.A. in communication leadership and a B.A. in journalism/news editorial from Drake University. Her 30-year career has included stints in newspaper, marketing and PR and corporate and nonprofit communications. She serves as a commissioner on the City of West Des Moines Human Rights Commission and is a board member for Annie’s Foundation and One Iowa Action.