Becoming a parent is often described in milestones—first steps, first words, first days of school—but there’s a quiet truth that no one can quite put into words: your children become part of you. Not just metaphorically. Not just emotionally. They become part of you, the way your arm is part of you, the way your heartbeat is automatic and essential.

They weave themselves into your daily rhythms, your thoughts, your senses. You hear their laughter in your head when it’s too quiet. You instinctively reach for them, even when they’re not there. You feel for them like a phantom limb—especially when they’re away.

It’s strange and hard to explain: how a little human you created, carried, raised, and loved can feel as vital to your being as a leg or a kidney. When they’re not with you, there’s a strange ache. A sense that something is missing. Not like you lost your phone or forgot your keys. No, it’s deeper. It’s like trying to walk with one shoe, or breathe with only one lung. You can do it, but it doesn’t feel right.

I used to think “empty nest” was something that happened later in life. But I get it now—it starts in tiny ways, from the very first time they don’t need you to help them put their shoes on. It’s both beautiful and heartbreaking, this growing independence.

But here’s what anchors me: even when they’re not physically here, they are always with me. In the way I think, the way I care, the way I love. They are stitched into who I am. A part of my being, always.

That’s love. That’s connection. That’s the beautiful burden of having given away pieces of your heart to walk around outside your body.

And even in the silence, they’re still with you.

with love and legos,

Cara