When back to school looks different

Listen to this article

The leaves are starting to change, the days are getting shorter, and my house is quiet. Too quiet. September has always carried a rhythm: backpacks being packed, alarm clocks set too early, and the sound of kids scrambling out the door. Only this year, it’s different. For the second time in decades, I don’t have to do back-to-school shopping. And let me tell you—it feels weird.

Back then, the ritual was always the same. My least favorite part? The crowds. Parents pushing carts like warriors battling in the aisles, everyone desperate to find that last pack of college-ruled paper or glue sticks. And of course, the inevitable “Oh, Mom! I need this before tomorrow!” panic that usually struck at 8:45 p.m. on a school night. Those last-minute runs to the store were practically part of our family tradition.

But I secretly loved parts of it, too. My favorite moments were watching my kids’ excitement bubble up when they got to pick out their first-day outfits. They’d model them for me, full of pride, like the day ahead was the start of something big. Driving them to school that morning, sharing a little pocket of time before the chaos of the day. Those are memories I wouldn’t trade.

If I’m honest, I can’t remember the details of every late-night project scramble. What I remember is the feeling… that I was always just a step behind, signing permission slips as the bus was pulling up, rushing to gather supplies, cramming everything into already full days. Life felt like one big game of catch-up. And yet, when I hear the laughter of neighborhood kids walking to school now, it’s not frustration I feel. It’s a gentle nudge of nostalgia. The sound of their sneakers on the pavement, the sing-song chatter, the calls of “hurry up!” and “wait for me!” They make me smile.

I live in a safe, beautiful neighborhood, and most days, hearing those sounds fills me with gratitude. But there’s also a tug. I miss it. I miss being in the thick of that season of life, as exhausting as it was.

And here’s the irony: I used to wish for calm. I used to dream about a life where I wasn’t running late to work because of forgotten lunches, or juggling two jobs while also trying to squeeze in laundry, or collapsing into bed at midnight only to be woken up by an alarm clock five hours later. Back then, the hustle felt endless, and calmness sounded like a luxury.

Now, I have that calm. And yes, it’s beautiful. I don’t miss dragging myself into crowded stores or navigating teenage shopping lists that included exactly the right shade of folder, the “good” pens, and shoes that had to pass a highly specific vibe check. My son was easy, get in, get what you need, get out. My daughter? Not so much. She did, however, teach me to slow down and actually enjoy the process. I’m still more of a grab-and-go shopper, but she gave me a little more patience for window shopping along the way.

My life is slower now, but it’s also been turned upside down in ways I didn’t expect. This spring, I had to say goodbye to my dog, who was my morning walking companion. That routine, our daily start, vanished, and the loss left a hole I’m still figuring out how to fill. Add to that the looming winter months, when that seasonal depression tends to creep in. I know myself: even with a light lamp, therapy, and coffee dates with friends, those cold mornings make it hard to stay motivated. And before anyone suggests an afternoon walk, trust me, I’ve tried. Once the day begins, it gets away from me. And evenings? Too many true crime podcasts have made sure I won’t be walking in the dark.

So here I am. The house is quiet. The kids are grown. The routine that once revolved around school calendars, sports practices, and teenage chaos is gone. People say, “Now you get to rediscover yourself.” And they’re not wrong – I am enjoying that process. But rediscovery doesn’t erase the longing. It doesn’t mean I don’t miss the sound of the front door slamming shut on a school morning, or the chaos of last-minute science projects, or the way life once demanded so much of me.

What I have now looks different. Instead of signing permission slips on the hood of my car, I curl up in my living room hammock with a book. Right now, I’m reading The Five Invitations by Frank Ostaseski, a reminder of the lessons that come when we slow down and pay attention. It feels fitting for this season.

Life today is calm. Life today is spacious. Life today is what I once wished for. And even though I miss the hustle and bustle, I’m learning to hold both truths at once. Gratitude for the quiet, and nostalgia for the noise.

Life is good today. It just looks different.