How to cope when you become an empty nester

A soccer ball falls, slapping the concrete floor of the garage, and I forget what I was looking for among the mountain bikes, boogie boards, tool cabinets and stacks of cardboard boxes. Part of me wants to rake it back with the sole of my shoe and kick it up to my hands, like I taught my kids, but today I act my age and bend down.

Gripping the seams, I study the polygonal panels, silver streaks and navy blue blobs that fade into specks against a white background. It feels light in my hands but heavy on my mind. I’m not sure where to put it now that so much has changed.

My youngest daughter just left for college, so this is the first season in three decades that I won’t be watching my kids play sports. It wasn’t always easy, but now I can’t imagine a life void of road trips to tournaments, carpools to practice and even gloomy drives home after a loss, when I would tease out hidden hurt and frustration.

How does such a life hold its shape? I’m surprised this ball is still holding its last pump.

My mom said it gave her too much anxiety to watch me wrestle, even if I pinned my opponent the one time she did. But as a father, I embraced that stress.

When my oldest son was on the mat, I’d catch myself shadowing his moves, twisting my torso like a life-size remote control. My leg wouldn’t stop twitching if I watched any game from the bleachers, so I’d pace the sidelines if I could. I still get teased for my video fails that showed the empty half of a basketball court with a soundtrack of the action taking place off-camera.

Under a flickering fluorescent light, I turn the ball over in my hands and wonder where it belongs now. Scanning the garage, I spot another ball. Then another. Soon I count five, each perched on a box or stuffed in a mesh bag with other equipment.

One is lime-green and flat, scuffed from all the hours getting kicked against a stone wall. The smallest one is pink, picked out by our youngest before she could know her parents were luring her into the beautiful game.

By the time she was old enough to compete, I had learned not to insert myself into the contest. I focused on her own determination, her ups and downs.

Watching her play became a respite from my personal stresses, no matter the score, and nothing was more rewarding than hearing her say, “Thanks for coming, Dad.”

I was pleased when she plucked her favorite — a red and black ball with a galactic design — from a repurposed flowerpot in the garage and took it with her. Turns out, she left me a perfect vacancy.

The pot looks at home here, among holiday decorations, ski boots, a baseball bat, boxes of documents and just enough space for a midsize SUV. For a minute, I did wonder if it was time to let some things go. But not today. Instead, I drop the ball there, right where it belongs.

This story appears in the October 2024 issue of Deseret Magazine . Learn more about how to subscribe .