The goal of motherhood, according to my mom, is to work oneself out of a job. She, apparently, was successful in that endeavor, as my siblings and I are capable adults and contributing members of society, now offering her help instead of the other way around. As a young mom, I thought I understood this aspect of my career, and I accepted the sacred assignment, knowing it would be a temporary position, or at least one that would go to part-time after decades of whole-hearted dedication. Of course, I couldn’t have fully grasped the emotional impact of transitioning from full-time caregiving for small children to supporting independent young adults, and homeschooling made it seem even more abrupt as there was no daily drop-off to get used to the idea that the kids wouldn’t always be there. They’re with you 24-7-365 and then one day they graduate and leave a gaping hole in your family. Suddenly, I find that my bustling one-room schoolhouse is down to one student, the “baby,” who is in high school. She just turned fifteen, is taller than me, and served as the maid of honor in her sister’s wedding. Did I mention I also have a married child? My head is still spinning from that, too.

In April, we celebrated eighteen years since we bought our boat and introduced our young family to sailing and the idea of living aboard (the kids were seven, six, four, and eighteen months and Rachel didn’t exist yet). Despite having downsized when we sold our house and most of our belongings, we managed to acquire a lot of stuff on Take Two in the intervening years, and her waterline has crept up over time. As each grown child moved off the boat, it should have gotten lighter, right? But, of course, stuff seems to expand to fill the space available. It became apparent to us in the last couple of years that it was time for a major sort-and-clean, and while we were at it, we also needed to fix some rotten wood in the cabin top, paint the interior, refresh the upholstery, replace the hot water heater, and renovate the port head. Which is how we find ourselves five months into what we thought was a two-month project.

After Jay’s dad passed away in September, we cleaned out his home and held his celebration of life and then cleaned out his boat and prepped it to be sold. In December, we decided to move ashore for a few months and unload the stuff from Take Two into the garage of the house we had inherited. It seemed like a good time for a fresh start, but in addition to Skipper’s death and the sale of Lovely Cruise, we also had Sam’s high school graduation, the holidays, and Sarah and Austin’s impromptu New Year’s wedding; perhaps a move and major home renovation was biting off more than we could chew. So, here we are, less than a month from hurricane season, still finishing the work on Take Two and anxious to just go home and get back to our life afloat. I have now cleaned and sorted most of our belongings into piles that will either go back to the boat or be donated/thrown away.

One day, while carrying the board games bin off the boat, the brittle plastic tub broke and the bottom fell out, spilling the contents in the cockpit as I stepped out the door. Of course, Battleship not only dropped to the floor, but also exploded, spilling tiny ships and colored pegs everywhere. In other circumstances, I might have found this funny. Actually, it is funny now that I think about it. But at the time, I just sat down and cried. It seemed so emblematic of the life stage I’m in: so much loss, so much mess, so many little bits and pieces all over the place. I realized I had been carrying the emotions of all these major life changes, not really having time to process any of them before the next one hit, just doing what needed to be done in the middle of family emergencies, celebrations, and transitions, not to mention that homeschooling, cooking, cleaning, and laundry do not magically stop for big life events.

There I was, falling apart like so many hits-and-misses on the cockpit floor. I took a photo and stuck it on the family group chat, asking, “Does anyone feel emotionally attached to Battleship? Should I try to reassemble it, or toss it?” All the kids said “Toss.” Which made me cry all the harder: all my babies are too grown up for children’s games! I went through the mental exercise of asking whether my non-existent grandchildren would like to play. That’s the insanity of motherhood on full display. I did pick up the little pieces and toss them into another bin, just so they wouldn’t go down the cockpit drain and into the ocean, but Battleship did not make the cut for the games bin that will go back on the boat.

Sometimes things fall apart. When we started out, we had no idea what this part of our lives would look like. I knew we couldn’t just sail around with small children forever—they simply refuse to stay small, and it was, quite frankly, exhausting and crazy-making sometimes. But I didn’t imagine what mothering looked like after the kids left home. I still make pizza every Friday night, and sometimes Eli or Aaron comes to join us when they’re not busy. Sometimes we play a board game or watch a family movie. Sarah lives far away and has her own life (and a husband!), and it’s weird to see her so rarely. Sam has one foot out the door, and when Rachel is the only one at home, the boat gets very quiet. The chemistry of a family of three is very different from that of a family of seven. We find ourselves asking, what’s next? Where do we want to go on Take Two? What kind of new adventures will we set out on with Rachel before she too is grown and flown? We’re still figuring that out.

In addition, I didn’t see my parents caring for my grandparents at the end of their lives, so I didn’t know what caregiving for the elderly would look like. I’ve spent countless hours over the last three years in doctor’s offices, emergency rooms, hospitals, rehab facilities, and nursing homes, as well as running errands and making meals, while Take Two stays mostly tied to a dock. I have been watching our parents lose their independence and health little by little, a different kind of falling apart. Their growing need for care affects our plans and future travels.

So, what do we do when it feels like things are falling apart? As much as I loved our family-travel life, there is no going back, only finding a new way forward. As with everything else, I trust God in this new stage of life. As I have already discovered, he always fills in the gaps: when we sail away from old friends, he provides new companionship. As cabins empty up on Take Two, the possibilities open up, too. We loved the trip to the Bahamas we took with our nieces in 2024 and can imagine taking people with us as we set sail again. As we have fulfilled some of the goals we set out in our youth, God will give us new goals to accomplish as we age. And while some chapters are ending, others are just being written, and still others, yet-to-be imagined.

For Mother’s Day this year, Rachel made me a tote bag from some fabric scraps I had been “saving for later” at the bottom of the fabric bin. They were Androsian batik quilt squares I had picked up in the Bahamas on our first sailing trip through the islands in 2010. The irony is not lost on me: when I bought those quilt squares, I was pregnant with the child who would later sew them into a beautiful and useful item. One of the joys in this phase of life is having these full-circle moments. So many things we began in our 20s and 30s are now bearing fruit in our 50s. That bag is a much better symbol to focus on instead of a broken board game. Like sewing quilt squares together, we’ll put things back together again on Take Two, make a hurricane season plan, and then figure out what’s next for the remaining crew. (Stay tuned for a before-and-after post!)