What No One Tells You About the Empty Nest

You can hear people describe it all day, but living through it as a father is an entirely different world.

Several months ago, my son got the news that he'd been accepted to George Washington University in Washington, D.C. For years, I had circled 2025 in my head as the year I would finally be free. When that acceptance letter came, the old Southwest Airlines line immediately popped into my head: "You are now free to move about the country."

I'd already traveled all over the United States as a musician, logging miles from one gig to the next, but that was always for work. This time, the freedom felt different. For the first time, I wasn't just free to travel through the country. I was free to leave New York City altogether.

Nothing was keeping me there anymore.

The truth is, the only reason I stayed so long wasn't out of love for the city or even for my career. It was because of my love for my kids.

I have been in New York since 1993. I never really liked it, if I am being honest. I moved here because it seemed like the natural choice. Family members and friends from junior high were building careers in the film industry, and for musicians, the choices were New York, Los Angeles, or Nashville. Since I was already in D.C. after college, playing in different bands, and had a circle of friends close to me who were in Connecticut and Rhode Island, New York felt like the obvious move. It was familiar enough. It was close to my extended family in Connecticut, and it was certainly closer than Tennessee and California.

I still remember the timing. I came here in March of 1993, right after the first World Trade Center bombing. I remember seeing one of the towers lit up while the other sat dark from the investigation. That moment etched itself into my memory. But even from the beginning, I never fully connected with New York's mentality. People here live in a cutthroat, survivalist energy, and you have to fight for almost everything. I understood it. I adapted. I learned how to elbow my way onto the subway, how to carve out space, how to survive. But deep down, it never sat right with me.

Of course, I found my communities: rock musicians, fusion bands, funk groups, singer-songwriters, world music collectives, and orchestras. Seven years in, Broadway became my main income stream. I went on the road with Footloose, came back, met the woman who would become my wife and later ex-wife, and started a family. That changed everything.

Raising kids in New York City is its own kind of marathon. The logistics, the schools, the constant grind of moving kids around in a city built for everyone and no one at the same time—it's a lot. When my daughter was born, I realized quickly that it was going to be harder than I ever imagined. By the time my son came along, I was juggling not only the city but also the gauntlet of family court. Anyone who has been through that knows it can sour you on more than just an ex—it can sour you on entire systems.

People called me a "single father," though what I was really doing was a lopsided version of co-parenting where most of the weight fell on me. From 7 a.m. to 6 p.m., it was nonstop: school runs, strollers on the subway, meals, homework, bedtime routines. I was in it every single day.

And while it was exhausting, I would not trade it because it built the bond I now have with my kids.

When I dropped off my daughter at the Culinary Institute of America in 2021, it was a proud moment. She was on her way, carving out a future in the culinary arts, and I still had my son at home to raise. Watching her follow her own passions was gratifying, but I knew my role as a father wasn't done yet.

Seeing my son off was different. He was the last, but here’s the truth no one really tells you. People can talk about empty nesting all they want, but it’s like trying to explain what it feels like to ride a bike, to swim, or to have sex. You can describe it all day, but hearing about it and living it are two completely different worlds.

I thought I’d feel nothing but relief. I had been counting down to this milestone since they were small. But when the moment came, it landed differently. Pride mixed with sadness. Excitement tangled with loss.

What makes it hard is that this stage of parenting forces you into a contradiction. You spend years teaching them how to be independent, how to think for themselves, how to build their own lives. That’s the job. And then, when they finally do it, your heart clenches because it means your role has to shift. You’ll always be there for them, always be their parent, but the truth is, the time has come to let go. And that letting go is harder than almost anything else you’ll do as a parent. It was for me.

Before I left my son in D.C., I told him what I needed to say. I let him know that college isn't easy, but it is one of the most transformative experiences he will ever have. It is a place to learn, to grow, to build a network, and to form friendships that can last a lifetime. I told him to go live it fully.

I told him something else, too. I let him know how much I love him and how a father-son bond is its own thing. Most fathers want their sons to be a chip off the old block, a sidekick, a mini-me. Someone to play catch with, ride bikes, explore the woods, play sports, wrestle, box, and, in our case, sit behind the drums. Even though he has no real interest in becoming a professional musician, I still showed him because he wanted to learn.

Many fathers want road trips with their sons, the chance to share experiences, and eventually even a drink together. And we did all of that. Cleveland, Detroit, Las Vegas, Phoenix, Miami—we made those memories. I never let him win when we played basketball, not once. But recently, he flat-out beat me. He is taller now, quicker, and better at the game I taught him. That is a loss I will take with pride.

And at the end of all that, I told him the most important thing. That he is everything I ever hoped for in a son. I am proud of the young man he is right now. I cannot wait to see who he becomes in the next few years at college.

With my daughter, the bond was just as strong, just different. In those early years, we did everything side by side, building a connection that runs deep, no matter how far she roams. I was the one who introduced her to cooking classes and paid for them whenever she wanted to go. We took little road trips to the mall, and when her younger brother came along, the three of us would ride together. That turned into its own kind of adventure.

The first four years of her life were mainly me and her, all day, every day—and I'll never forget that. Fathers and daughters move to one rhythm, fathers and sons to another. But the love is the same.

Now both of them are out of the house. I will admit, it is an interesting feeling. I miss them already. Not in the sense that I want them back full-time. I have done my job, and I have plenty of work still ahead of me. What I miss are the everyday moments. The sound of them in the other room. The regular routines. That is what stings.

But here's the beauty in it. This next phase is about watching them step into their own lives. My daughter is already taking flight. My son is at the starting line of his college journey. And me, I am finally free to choose where I want to be. One thing I know for sure: it won't be New York. It never truly felt like home. I stayed because of my kids, not because of the city. Now I can move on—to somewhere warmer, calmer, and more in tune with who I am today.

What I also know is this: being their father has been the most important role of my life. More important than the gigs, the tours, the shows, or the stages. It has been raising two human beings and sending them into the world.

So here I am at the beginning of the empty nest. Proud. Grateful. A little sad. But mostly excited, for my kids and for me. Because as much as this chapter is closing, the story is not ending. Not for them, not for me, not for us.

To every parent who has experienced this, I'm curious about your feelings and experiences when your child left home for their own place or college.

Deep Cuts is where I think out loud about the intersections of culture, history, music, politics, and power. If this sparked something in you—whether you agree or not—share it, pass it along, or subscribe for more.

I’m Clayton Craddock: father, business owner, musician, and truth-seeker. I believe in asking the hard questions and refusing to settle for easy answers. That’s why I write Deep Cuts—to challenge the status quo and dig beneath the surface.

You can find more of my work and connect with me at www.claytoncraddock.com.