On #2 Leaving the Nest

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

…THE DAYS ARE LONG, BUT THE YEARS ARE SHORT

August 29, 2017

Gabby leaves for college in a few days. Similar to when she was born and had a blank slate to life, she is now beginning a brand new chapter of her life with a blank slate. This time she is beginning with a host of 18 years’ worth of experiences created through childhood behind her. Anything is possible. Some of the potential possibilities are controllable, and others are circumstantial.

Two years ago I wrote my first blog about the experience of Thomas leaving for college (A Cold August Morning). It’s hard to imagine that half of his college years have elapsed and Gabby is now leaving the nest too.

It’s not any easier. It’s just as beautiful, yet heartbreaking. It is actually like a piece of me leaves with them. I feel emotionally like I’m giving birth again, and a piece of me is being taken away from me. There is an emptiness in my body. I know from the experience with Thomas that the pain goes away after a few days, very similar to the way a body heals itself after the birthing process.

I’ve spent much of this summer off the grid and taking care of a very intimate, private matter. Perhaps one day I will consider blogging about it, but for now it’s very personal and may always stay as such. It also happens to be a transformational time of my life, with my youngest biological child morphing into an adult and going out into the world solo before my very eyes. I have spent some time journaling, contemplating, and thinking about the passage of time. Certain experiences will string together to create a future you cannot yet see or imagine. At the time, you have no idea how important certain things are.

Gabby is beginning the journey cut off from the age and necessary schooling restrictions that kept her close to me and under my care for the past 18 years. I’m so excited, scared, and happy for her. I wish I could keep being there in the day-to-day, knowing when she gets home from work, what she is wearing, etc. But that is unhealthy. It’s time for me to let her use the wings I helped her grow.

How did my experiences get me to this point in time?

October 1994 – One fine morning around 3am

I am 18 years old. I am freshly out of Coast Guard boot camp and on watch at my first duty station on the USCGC Boutwell. I am standing my first “mids” watch in port. It’s dark, I smell diesel, and I can barely make out the visuals of my new surroundings. I hear water lapping up against the hull and my feet hurt in these dress shoes I’m wearing in the middle of the night. I am on Coast Guard Island in Alameda, CA. It’s a little chilly and I’m wearing an issued jacket over my uniform that isn’t very warm.

I’m standing watch with a BPOW (brow petty officer of the watch) on the brow of the ship. My role is that of the messenger. Sometime around 3am I am instructed to wake up the folks who are on the 4–8am watch shift. My thoughts become slightly fearful… wake people up? I thought about how I was woken up around 11pm by a male voice. It is still a bit strange and new to me to be in close quarters with strangers, and even more so to be exchanging such intimacies with males, such as waking someone up. Until now it didn’t dawn on me that I would have to do that too. Earlier, the BPOW walked me through who I was to wake up and where their berthing area was on the ship. I took notes. I have four people to wake up. One is a female and the other three are male. Of the three guys, two are in the same berthing area and one is in another. I plan to start with the female to get my feet wet, then the single male, and then the doubles. I glance at their names on the list. Everyone addresses one another by their last name. I don’t know many people yet, and I don’t know any of these folks. One of the names is Messeder. He will be my direct replacement as Messenger of the watch. Messeder the Messenger—I smile quietly to myself.

October 1994 – That same fine day around 1pm or so…

As the daily work is drawing to a close, I am assigned to sweep the port side of the ship with a handful of other Seamen. I am sweeping not far from someone I am pretty sure I hadn’t seen before. His hat covers most of his face since he is looking down as he sweeps. When I’m not paying attention, I hear him say, “Hello DeGrazia.” I look up. He has a semi-confident, semi-nervous smile. I think to myself I haven’t seen this one before; I would remember him because he is cute. He has a nice crooked smile and eyes that seemed familiar, almost like I should know them. I look down at the nametag on his working blue shirt. Messeder.

August 1995

Messeder and I are out on a Sunday afternoon. At some point in the past 10 months, I started calling Messeder by his first name, John. We have been dating a few months. However, since dating is prohibited amongst shipmates, we need to stay clear of any places we may be spotted.

This particular cool, sunny August afternoon we drive south from my apartment in San Leandro toward San Jose. We have no plans other than explore the area and spend time together. Somehow we happen upon a zucchini festival in Hayward, CA. We walk around, eat fried zucchini, and play some games. We walk toward the end of the festival and onto the sidewalk. We continue a few blocks until we find ourselves in front of a movie theater playing a movie called Nine Months. Since the movie is a few weeks old, it only costs a dollar. We decide to watch it.

In the movie, the unexpected pregnant main female lead reads the book What to Expect When You’re Expecting and wants the baby’s father to read it as well. He isn’t interested, they fight and break up, and in the fairy-tale ending, he reads the book and is there for her when she has their baby.

Nearly 4 years later

May 1999

It’s late in the afternoon on a weekday. It’s warm, bright, and sunny. All the windows are open in our Cape Cod unit on Otis Air Force Base. John and I are now married for 3 ½ years. I’m in the kitchen preparing dinner and reading. We have a two-year-old named Tommy, and I’m 8 months pregnant with number two.

I’m rereading the same book I read with Tommy, What to Expect When You’re Expecting. Apparently this book is quite popular among parents-to-be. With both pregnancies, each month I read the chapter that corresponded with my gestational timeline to learn more about what was happening inside my body and the baby.

Since I’m 8 months pregnant, I decide to read the ninth month and the closing chapter as well. I don’t remember reading this with Tommy, but the book talks about how messy and chaotic life will feel once the baby comes home, and how that chaos can last for years. It also suggests that one day, when the house is quiet again and the children have grown and left, you will miss that noise. I tear up and get chills. That moment feels so far away, but I can already sense how meaningful it will be.

18+ years later

August 26, 2017

It’s a bright, sunny, cool day. The summer is drawing to a close. The sun is rising later each morning and setting sooner each evening. The air in the morning is far cooler than the past few weeks, and last night it was downright cold while I was sitting outside on the porch with Thomas (we call him Tom or Thomas now).

John, Thomas, Gabby, and I are having an early lunch at Outback Steakhouse in Southington, CT. It’s only 11:30 in the morning and the restaurant is quite empty. It’s dark inside, but the sunlight floods the windows. We haven’t sat together for a meal, just the four of us, since Gabby’s 12th birthday in 2011, soon after John and I divorced following 15 years of marriage.

Thomas spent this past summer between his sophomore and junior year in college working and living in Rhode Island with his current girlfriend. He came home last night and is leaving tomorrow morning to go back up to school in Portland, ME. John drove down from Pittsfield, MA this morning where he lives. He just accepted a new job in Tennessee and will be training in Germany for two months. He is leaving in just over a week. Gabby lives with me but has been working at Panera nearly every night this summer. She is asleep when I leave in the morning and gone by the time I come home each afternoon. She will be starting her freshman year at the University of Rhode Island next Sunday.

John and I are on one side of the table. Thomas and Gabby are on the other. Thomas is across from John and looks like a younger version of his dad. Gabby sits across from me. For years people have commented that she is my little twin. We now have two grown children who are 20 and 18 years old. This is the nuclear family John and I started when we were not much older than these two in front of us. They very much look like we did back then.

What to say? There has been a combination of 23 years of laughter, fun, tears, pain, and growing together. Beginning tomorrow, the four of us are going our separate ways, farther apart than we’ve ever been before. Sitting here during this meal, we have a lot of conversation about the mistakes we made in the past as individuals and with one another. There is a lot of apologizing, explaining, and understanding. Gabby is the most cut off from the group, texting her colleagues about the evening’s coverage at Panera. John and Thomas are at the brink of potentially arguing a few times. I’m the one who probably feels the most surreal. I happen to look over at Thomas while he is talking to John. He has his father’s eyes—the same eyes I somehow recognized on the Boutwell that day.

While it’s incredibly likely we will be together again in the future, this is the last of the “raising children” phase as childhood is officially over for these two wonderful grown-ups sitting in front of me today. I didn’t know that first mid-watch on the Boutwell when I read the name Messeder that it would be my name for 18 whole years (as old as I was at that time), or that it would be the name of my future children. I couldn’t have possibly predicted what was in store.

Today

August 31, 2017

Tonight I’m sad and having a little difficulty coming to the realization that my time as a mom, in the way I’ve known it, is over. I still have an important role, though I don’t know what it is yet. The uncertainty of the future stirs up a bit of anxiety. Life is uncertain. I want to use these experiences as reminders in my life that every moment counts. Some will shape the future and others will just be a blip in the passage of life, but every single moment has potential. I want to be present more and just enjoy what is.

The years with Gabby were nothing but a blessing. She has gone from a helpless little baby to a fully grown woman. I can’t help but think back to some of the younger days when she needed me—times when she was afraid of having bad dreams and I would dust her arms with “sweet dreams powder” before bed. She used to snuggle up next to me on the couch and often put her arms around me and tell me that she loved having a compact, portable mommy (for whatever that meant). I coached her soccer team, and while braiding her hair one day at home she said she imagined the other girls on her team would be jealous because she was getting her hair braided by the coach. She used to want to work at the VA with me and said she was going to buy a house next door and always live near me. Recently I came across an old Mother’s Day card from her where she told me to do nothing but relax and that if I needed anything, I should just look to my right and she would be there to do it for me. She always loved cats and McDonald’s. Those little trinkets the kids buy at school holiday fairs that say #1 Mom and similar sentiments mean more now than they did then.

When Gabby found out her dad and I were divorcing, she was so sweet. We went to Hubbard Park that day and sat on a picnic blanket. Once she settled down, she said she understood and had even kind of predicted it. She was 11. She’s taken after me with planning, organizing, and baking. She works hard but has a healthy balance of taking it easy when she feels stressed (I wish I had learned that a bit earlier on). She’s also incredibly intuitive. I’m so proud of her.

I put a lot of heart into honoring Gabby on her 18th birthday (On This Day) just over two months ago. I knew the coming weeks were going to fly by and I’d be here, in this very place where that idea from What to Expect When You’re Expecting said it would be—where the noise, chaos, laughter, and tears would be missed once the house quieted down and the car was packed for college.

Though we aren’t back to normal quite yet. I am still a stepmother of two more who haven’t left the nest. It’s a more complicated, undefined role. Daren & I’s story is equally as complex and full of what initially seemed like uneventful life experiences that shaped the circumstances that led us to where we are today. It’s just about time to shift gears and move on to the next stage.

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How to squash a motivated employee

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

I’ve lost my mojo at work.

I’ve known it for a while, but this morning it really hit me. I was standing in my closet, wrapped in this oversized gray robe I bought on a whim at Target. It was warm. Comfortable. Easy. And getting dressed for work felt like effort I didn’t have.

My clothes—once something I took pride in—just hung there. Waiting. They suddenly felt stiff. Confining. They represented something I was starting to resist.

Work.

I’ve always loved work. I’ve always taken pride in what I do—whether it was scooping ice cream, solving a customer issue, or building dashboards. I’ve always wanted to make things better. To go above and beyond. To leave people better than I found them.

I didn’t need recognition. I got enough satisfaction from doing things well.

Looking back, I was deeply self-motivated. I built my education piece by piece—CLEP exams, online courses, degrees—while raising kids and working. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but it took drive. A lot of it.

And for over two decades, I brought that same energy to my work.

Not because I wanted to climb the ladder. I didn’t. I never aspired to senior leadership. I wanted balance. I wanted to be present for my kids. I wanted to do meaningful work from whatever seat I was in—and then go home and live my life.

And for a long time, that worked.

Until it didn’t.

A couple of years ago, I took a new role. It was a chance to grow, to build something new. There was no clear structure, no defined path—but I saw potential. So I created direction. I built a small, motivated team. I floated ideas, got approval, and we moved forward.

But over time, something became clear.

The support wasn’t real.

The ideas were approved—but not understood. And when challenges came, the support disappeared. Decisions were reversed. Priorities shifted. Conversations that needed to happen never did.

I wasn’t growing anymore. I was managing noise.

And for the first time in my life, I started to dread going to work.

It felt… pointless.

Waking up tired. Getting dressed in clothes that didn’t feel like me. Driving in to sit at a desk and move things around without actually moving anything forward.

Meanwhile, my life outside of work was getting fuller and more demanding. A blended family. Four teenagers. Real life.

So I asked a simple question:

Could I work part-time?

The answer came quickly: “Absolutely. We’d do anything to keep you.”

But then… nothing.

Weeks turned into months. Promises were made, then quietly undone. I adjusted my schedule, continued delivering, met every request—and still, no real answer.

If I had been told upfront that it wasn’t possible, I would have made a different decision. Instead, I stayed in limbo.

And something in me shut down.

Motivation doesn’t disappear overnight. It erodes.

Not too long ago, I couldn’t understand how people became disengaged at work. I saw colleagues who seemed checked out, counting down to retirement, and I didn’t get it.

Now I do.

It’s not laziness.

It’s what happens when effort and impact become disconnected. When leadership lacks clarity, consistency, or follow-through. When people who care stop seeing a reason to.

All the things I studied—leadership, motivation, organizational development—they’re not abstract concepts. They matter. A lot.

The right people in the right roles. Clear communication. Follow-through. Support.

Without those, even the most motivated people start to disengage.

And once that happens, it’s hard to get back.

At some point, I realized something else:

It’s not just about the organization.

It’s about fit.

I’m no longer a good fit here.

And that’s okay—but it also means something needs to change.

Because sitting in a role where I feel like an observer instead of a contributor isn’t sustainable. Not for my mental health. Not for my sense of purpose.

I don’t need perfection. I don’t need constant praise.

But I do need to feel like what I’m doing matters.

Right now, it doesn’t.

And that’s the hardest part.

How do you squash a motivated employee?

  • Ask them to do as you say, not as you do.
  • Ignore their track record when they make a reasonable request.
  • Avoid real conversations about expectations.
  • Give them goals they’ve already surpassed.
  • Approve ideas, then withdraw support when it matters.
  • Don’t follow up. Don’t engage. Don’t lead.
  • Take everything they’re willing to give.
  • Give nothing in return.

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On the passage of time

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

It still hurts after 10 years. The same exact pain at times. The same heart-wrenching squeeze that comes in waves while I’m experiencing grief. It feels like my heart is being rung out.

The first time I felt this so strongly was around this time of year 11 years ago when my mom was diagnosed with lung cancer. She died 10 years and 2 months ago. She was only 49. October 25th would have been her 60th birthday. My grandmother, who I was even closer with, passed away just 11 months later—also from lung cancer. She would have been 89 this year on November 21.

I miss them. Tonight, I’m especially missing them.

Them. Because they passed away so close together, we often refer to them as “them.” I don’t think about this often, but tonight I’m mourning and it’s on my mind. I was crying and having a hard time breathing in bed, so I got up and decided to pour it out—onto a keyboard instead of paper.

People who have lost someone close understand how grief can capture you by surprise. How it moves through your body. How, in those moments, it can feel like it will never let go.

They may also understand the strange comfort that can come when you feel the presence of the people you’ve lost. When I’m inconsolable, I feel them. Both of them. Always together, always comforting. I don’t know if it’s memory, energy, or something beyond what we understand—but I’m certain something about them helps me get through it.

Tonight I found myself thinking about who “we” are—the small group of people who still hold them together like this.

My brothers. My aunt. They understand immediately. I can tell them I had a dream, or that I’m having a hard night, and they just get it.

Then there’s John, my ex-husband. He was part of my life and my family when we were young, when my parents were still together. He knew them. He understood the dynamic—especially between my mom and grandmother. They were opposites. They annoyed each other, complained about each other, but loved each other deeply.

I remember one night soon after my grandmother passed. I was hysterically crying, and John said, “I bet when your mom saw grandma in the afterlife she said to her ‘So soon?’”— I stopped crying and started laughing. I still laugh about it today. It was exactly what she would have said.

I don’t talk to John much anymore, but I know if I needed to talk about them, he’d understand.

My father comes to mind too. He lives a bit in his own world, but he has moments where he reflects on them. Even though my parents were divorced, he’ll speak fondly of my mom and recall memories with my grandmother. Sometimes those conversations can shift in ways I don’t want them to, but the connection is still there.

My uncle. Maybe my kids, in a different way—but they didn’t fully know them like we did.

And that’s what hit me tonight.

How few people are left who truly knew them the way I did.

It made me think about time.

Thomas was supposed to come home this weekend. I had his room ready, stocked with his favorite foods. I was so excited. But work got in the way, and he couldn’t make it. I know I should just feel grateful he’s healthy and doing well—but I’m still sad.

Gabby is in her last year of high school. Soon she won’t be home every day either. Then there will be partners, new families, new traditions. Holidays will shift.

Up until now, I’ve had them for everything. Every holiday—big and small. I made a big deal out of all of it. Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Halloween—especially fall. Baking, decorating, pumpkin picking.

And now I can feel that chapter starting to close.

I always knew this would happen. I understood it intellectually. But tonight, I feel it.

My grandmother used to tell me to enjoy this time. To relax and take it in. I didn’t fully understand then.

I do now.

And I’ll probably understand it even more deeply 20 years from now.

We think we understand things before we actually do. We don’t.

We grow older. Our kids grow up. People leave our lives in different ways. Nothing stays the same.

The things we take for granted won’t always be here.

The world is impermanent.

Why do we think we can hold onto anything?

Maybe the real wisdom is understanding that change is inevitable—and that sadness has a place alongside happiness.

And maybe peace comes when we stop fighting that.

Time has given me space between moments of grief, but it hasn’t erased it.

Time has given me older children, but I don’t love them any less—or feel their distance any easier.

Time has given me more understanding, but often only after the moment has passed.

And time will keep moving.

Maybe this is a little too deep for some. Tonight, I feel deep.

I’m sad that this chapter of raising my kids is shifting.

And mostly, I just really miss my mom and grandma.

So tonight, before I try to sleep, I’ll think of John’s comment—

“So soon?”

And I’ll let myself smile.

Peace.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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