The Days I Miss My Son

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I love my alone time. Truly. It gives me space to think, reflect, create. It helps me recharge emotionally and reconnect with myself.

But when my son’s away, even when I know I need the space—it still hits me.

The house feels different. Still and quiet, but not in a peaceful way. More like a gentle hollowness. The routines I follow alone don’t carry the same meaning. His absence makes itself known in small, quiet moments: making food for one, walking without his chatter, tidying a room that never got messy.

I remind myself that this time apart is part of what makes me a better parent. It gives me the capacity to show up fully when he’s here. And I know he’s okay. I know I’m okay.

But I still miss him.

I used to interpret missing someone as a weakness. A sign I wasn’t coping. Now I see it differently. Missing someone is an act of love. It doesn’t need fixing or rushing through. It just needs to be felt.

So I let myself feel it. And I trust that this ache is simply a reflection of how deeply I care.