My husband Jamie and I recently drove our younger daughter Eleanor up to college, to help her move in for her freshman year.

It’s a huge family milestone.

In the weeks before, we went to Target, washed the new sheets, jammed stuff into plastic drawers, labeled towels, and finally loaded up the trunk. Because we had a four-hour drive ahead of us, we left the day before and spent the night in a nearby hotel.

Here are some of my observations and reflections:

1. On the long drive, Jamie and I kept thinking of more words of wisdom to impart to Eleanor. “Ask for help!” “Make conversation with people, don’t look at your phone all the time!” “Don’t do anything unsafe or stupid!” But we said these things mostly to relieve our own feelings. For Eleanor, it’s probably too late; she’s either learned those lessons from us—or not. At one point, Jamie actually said, “Just take advantage of everything that college offers,” and we all burst out laughing. It’s such a cliche. It’s true, but it’s also such a cliche. But it’s true!

2. Once we got settled in the hotel, we walked around campus to find her dorm, the gate where we’d drive in, etc. When we arrived at her dorm, an obliging student let us inside, so even though Eleanor couldn’t look in her room (she didn’t have a key yet), she was able to explore the building, walk through the basement, find the laundry machines, etc., when there were almost no students around. On the Happier podcast episode 457, we talk about why visiting a place ahead of time can reduce anxiety. This familiarity made the next morning much easier.

3. Eleanor had to choose a time slot for us to unload the car, and I was surprised that she chose 8 a.m., because usually she  prefers to sleep later if possible. When the morning arrived, I was very glad she had the forethought to choose the first possible time. From the moment we arrived, she felt restless and uneasy. She wouldn’t have enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, morning walk, or sleeping in. She just wanted to get unpacked and settled.

4. I kept reminding myself, “People are more important than process.” Meaning, meeting people or being attentive to Eleanor was more important than getting unpacked as fast as possible. For instance, at one point, Eleanor said, “Can we just go get a cup of coffee?” Part of me thought, “Let’s get this done!” but I realized, no, we’re not in a hurry, let’s take a caffeine break. That respite really calmed her down. Also, I  kept reminding myself not to get so focused on the to-do list that I didn’t make conversation with the other families. People are more important than process.

5. At a certain point, I could see that Eleanor was starting to have trouble bridging the new and old worlds. There wasn’t much for Jamie and me to do. Probably our most important decision was recognizing the right time to leave.

At the very end, I gave Eleanor a long, tight hug, and when Jamie asked me a question, I couldn’t speak. “Oh, Mom, are you crying?” she asked tenderly. “I never see you cry! It’s okay!” I tried to put into that hug everything I couldn’t say.

After we gave our last, bittersweet good-byes, and as we headed back to the parking garage to start the long drive home, Jamie took my hand.

Fittingly, I was reminded of something I’d read during my own college years, the final lines of Milton’s Paradise Lost:

Some natural tears they drop’d, but wip’d them soon;
The World was all before them, where to choose
Thir place of rest, and Providence thir guide:
They hand in hand with wandring steps and slow,
Through Eden took thir solitarie way.

On the drive home, I wasn’t sobbing (I’ve heard from many people who say that they sobbed the entire way home), but I was overwhelmed by waves of emotions.

Jamie reached over and took my hand again. “She’ll do great,” he said reassuringly.

“I know,” I answered. “She’ll do great, and we’ll do great, but it’s the end of an era.”

I’m not really sure what I’m feeling. A friend emailed me, “You may still be processing those emotions for a long time.” I think she’s right.

As I was preparing for this milestone, I felt dissatisfied with the metaphor of “Empty nest.” “Empty” has a bereft feel and signifies loss and absence; I don’t want to define the next decades of my life by what’s missing.