Mirror in the Sky: A Landslide Story
I always listen to music. YouTube Premium is mandatory in my life. The day begins with Banana Pancakes by Jack Johnson, and goes from there. Today, unexpectedly, Landslide came on.
The moment that gentle, familiar strumming of Lindsey Buckingham's guitar begins, followed by Stevie Nicks's voice—"I took my love, I took it down..."—my breath catches. The tears are instant. Every single time.
"Landslide" by Fleetwood Mac isn't just a song; it's a raw, honest soundtrack to parenthood and the relentless, beautiful passage of time. It's a mirror reflecting every season of my life, a bittersweet melody for any parent who has wrestled with the memory of time lost versus the profound reality of a life well-lived.
The Weight of the "Landslide"
For many years, I was a blur of motion. Often working two, sometimes three, jobs was simply the necessity of life. I was trapped in a continuous state of "Life Demands," pouring all my energy into building a stable foundation. My children had everything they needed, and often, everything they wanted. A roof over their heads, food on the table, clothes on their backs – I sacrificed, I provided. And in doing so, I missed a lot—a lot of the small, precious, unrepeatable moments.
At first, the crying spells I used to have were intense—a daily occurrence of the haunting question of presence. Now, the tears come less frequently, but certain triggers—a random thought, a familiar scent, or the opening notes of that song—can still bring the floodgates. They are complex—not always sad; they are often happy tears, loving tears, tears of overwhelming pride for the incredible adults they have become. When "Landslide" plays, I'm utterly, beautifully finished. It strips away the years, floods me with every memory—the regrets, the triumphs, the profound love—and puts me right back in those moments I wish I could revisit, the ones I wasn't present for, and I grapple with the feeling of being "robbed"—not by choice, but by the forceful circumstances caused by bad decisions.
A Legacy of Sassier, Bolder Children
I look at the four of them now, and the pride is immense.
There's my oldest, who joined the Navy. I still laugh remembering him calling a new sailor, grumbling, "All we do is watch the fishes fuck." He was adjusting, finding his place, and growing into a strong, capable man who chose service and discipline.
And my Army son. Honestly, I thought he'd be sent home from basic training because authority and he weren't exactly a perfect match! But he stuck it out. He made it, got married, and now has two amazingly beautiful children. His son is the mirror image of him at that age, a tiny, mischievous echo of his dad's childhood.
Then there's my daughter. For years, I gave her the classic—and utterly outdated—parenting line that her "vagina would fall out" if she put it out there, to which she'd roll her eyes and inform me it was "scientifically impossible." Now she's a mom herself, to my sassy little Levi muffin, and she navigates motherhood with a fierce grace that makes my heart swell.
And my youngest—the most caring, compassionate soul I know, whose quiet wisdom far exceeds his years. He is the glue, the gentle reminder of empathy in a hectic world.
The Silence and The Self-Neglect
Without them, my life didn't just feel empty; it was silent. This was another huge psychological shift. For decades, there was always noise: the hum of game systems, the ding of cell phones, the constant chatter. The silence felt deafening. Part of this, I know, is a common human trait—we struggle to sit in silence because it forces us to confront our own internal thoughts. But for a long time, the silence was a reminder of the visceral absence of the life I had built. Now, however, sometimes the silence can be a comfort. I can sit in it, sometimes forgetting that nothing is even playing.
I hear this is self-healing in progress.
This external noise had drowned out my internal needs, too. I experienced the most profound realization of self-neglect in my most sacred place: the kitchen.
One day last summer, I babysat my grandson and I sent my daughter to the store for me with my list. She called and asked, "Mom, what flavor of yogurt do you want?"
I replied, "You know."
She paused, then gently said, "No, Mom. You always got what we wanted."
That simple, raw statement stopped me cold. It's not news that I had often never made my own plate; I usually just finished what they left on theirs. I had to stop and ask myself: What did I even like?
The Self-Rediscovery
Although my path had already led me to this place of much needed self-discovery, this too brought me to that path. The moment my daughter asked about the yogurt flavor is a perfect metaphor for the loss of self that often accompanies years of dedicated, relentless parenting.
The Unconscious Habit
I wasn't deliberately neglecting myself; my survival mode was wired entirely around my children's needs. Making my own plate or selecting my favorite foods wasn't an oversight, it was an unconscious deletion of self because my focus was 100% external.
The "Landslide" Moment
That simple question—"No mom, you always got what we wanted"—was another moment where the "landslide" brought me down, not in a destructive way, but in a way that forced you to look inward. It was a gentle, loving push into the next phase: Who am I when I'm not just 'Mom'?
This helped to develop JstJenni—a story for another time.
The Happy/Loving Tears
This is where those tears of love and pride come in. My daughter's observation wasn't a criticism; it was an act of recognition. She saw my sacrifice, and her question demanded that I finally turn that care back onto myself.
This process of figuring out how to cook for one, how to eat what I like, and what flavors I prefer, is the slow, steady process of becoming bolder again. It's an essential step in the next chapter of my life.
"Mirror in the Sky": Accepting the Seasons of Change
This empty nest stage is a monumental "Change of the Seasons," and the song beautifully captures the difficulty of this transition:
"Can I sail through the changin' ocean tides? Can I handle the seasons of my life?"
Without them, those missed moments loom large. The firsts, the activities, the moments I was too tired to fully engage with.
I know I was a good mom. Perfect? No, not by any means. But a good mom, who did her absolute best with the circumstances life threw at her.
And here's the wonderful truth: somehow, they still know when I need them most—the times I get stuck in my head, the memories and all the feelings overwhelm me and missing them seems almost unbearable. The moments when their adult lives intersect with my need for connection are the moments that bring those deep, loving tears.
Like the time my 23-year-old son broke his arm. I missed his middle-of-the-night call. His wife messaged me back the next day, telling me they'd been to the ER, and he was getting a cast the next day. He'd called because even as a grown man, hurting and in pain, he just wanted to hear my voice—just wanted to make sure he was okay.
Or the out-of-the-blue message from my daughter, "Hey, can I cut my hair?"—and I had to remind her, with a laugh, "Moo, you're an adult now!"
And my youngest, just when I'm feeling a little lost, sends a simple, "Hey Ma, it's been a while, making sure you're good, and I love you."
They are my "mirror in the sky," reflecting back the love I poured into them, even when I felt I was running on empty. "Time makes you bolder," Stevie sings, and it's true. It's making me bolder, too, as I learn to navigate this new season of my life, cherishing the adults they've become, and holding onto the enduring love that ties us, forever, together.
My tears now are the complex runoff of this entire journey. They are tears of relief, of acceptance, of pride, and of unconditional love.
Stevie Nicks sings, "Well, I've been afraid of changing, 'cause I've built my life around you / But time makes you bolder, even children get older / And I'm getting older, too."
It's true. Time has made me bolder. I am learning to navigate this new, quieter chapter, no longer defined solely by the constant hustle of 'mom-ing'. I am learning to embrace the tears—the loving, proud, complex tears—and cherishing the profound, beautiful foundation I built around the incredible, resilient adults they've become. The bond we share is unbreakable, a deep, lasting love forged by sacrifice and celebrated every time I hear that song.
Coping Strategies for Empty Nesters (Self-Help Focus)
The psychological journey I described—from the feeling of being "robbed" to the self-discovery in the kitchen—can be defined in the empty nest syndrome.
Coping Strategies for Surviving the 'Empty Nest'
Acknowledging Grief
Allow Yourself to Feel: Acknowledge the loss and sadness. This is a significant life change, and grief is a natural, necessary part of the transition. Journaling or creating a small "ritual" (like planting a tree) can help process these emotions.
The "Mirror in the Sky" Invest in Yourself
Re-engage with your own identity: Rediscover the hobbies, interests, and personal passions you set aside for years. This mirrors your "Self-Discovery in the Kitchen" moment—find your own favorite "flavor" of life again.
Handling the "Seasons" Embrace the New Chapter
See this as a continuation of your life, not an ending: Set new, achievable personal goals, like taking a short course or joining a group. This builds the "bolder" version of yourself.
The Noise/Silence Shift Cultivate Presence & Self-Care
Practice mindfulness or meditation: Become comfortable with the internal quiet. Prioritize your physical health (exercise, diet) and mental health (self-care). This helps you process thoughts rather than avoid them.
Relationship Change Redefine Connection
Talk to your adult children: Discuss the kind of contact they want. Shift the dynamic from "caregiver" to "adult-to-adult." This deepens the bond while respecting their independence.
Resources for 'Empty Nesters'
From Mom to Me Again: How I Survived My First Empty-Nest Year and Reinvented the Rest of My Life by Melissa Shultz:
A journey of self-reinvention after the kids leave.
My Nest Isn't Empty, It Just Has More Closet Space by Lisa Scottoline and Francesca Scottoline Serritella:
A humorous and heartfelt look at the changing mother-daughter dynamic.
Healing the Empty Nester's Grieving Heart by Alan D. Wolfelt, Ph.D.:
Offers 100 practical ideas for acknowledging and expressing feelings of loss and re-installing your life with meaning.
Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?
Can the child within my heart rise above?
Can I sail through the changin' ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?
Well, I've been afraid of changing, 'cause I built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Even children get older
And I'm getting older too.
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