Carla Wainwright Creatrix

Dropping my daughter off at University this week has made me think about how we mark transitions in women's lives. Society lavishes mothers with rites of passage at the beginning of the journey - pregnancy announcements, baby showers, blessingways, and birth celebrations. We explicitly honour the shift into motherhood.

But when a woman finishes the daily work of raising her children into thriving, independent adults, we hand her the word empty nest and send her on her way.

I have never liked that phrase. It makes two decades of building a human sound like a loss instead of an achievement.

I think we lack a sacred marker or cultural ritual that acknowledges both the deep grief of letting go and the monumental achievement of raising a thriving, independent human. It deserves recognition, space, and celebration for the woman who spent two decades building that foundation and is now shifting back into herself, sovereign and unclaimed by anyone else's needs for the first time in years.

If 'empty nest' feels too small for this moment, what would you call this transition instead? If you've launched your children into the world, what was that experience like for you?

I was walking Odin on the Pidherney trails the other day when we met up with a neighbour who walks his standard poodle, Remy. While we were chit-chatting, he suddenly looked down at my feet and exclaimed, “It’s YOU!”

He told me he’s been seeing mysterious barefoot footprints on the forest trails for years and couldn’t figure out who was walking out there without shoes. He seemed concerned that I would hurt myself. I just laughed because, as you probably know, forest walking barefoot is one of my absolute delights.

His reaction made me think about how much energy we waste trying to protect ourselves from worst-case scenarios. I don’t stare at the ground scanning for danger. I glance at the ground, stay present in my body, and trust my feet to know where to step.

I see this same hyper-vigilance in so many midlife women. We’re always braced, overthinking every step and watching for what might go wrong. I wish more women knew how much energy that takes, and what it can feel like to finally permit yourself to drop some of that armour.

Where in your life are you bracing for something that hasn’t even happened?

Thanks to three incredible raspberry patches on our property and diligent care, we’ve had a massive bumper crop this summer. Having all this fruit picked and frozen for the winter is an incredible gift of abundance, and I’m deeply grateful for it. BUT… after three weeks of picking almost every single night, I am officially over it.

The chickens like to hover under my feet hoping for dropped berries, which does make it more fun, but now that the nights are coming earlier, finding myself out in the garden picking at 9:00 PM in the twilight just feels like work. The joy from week one has worn off.

Here is the thing: we are allowed to be deeply grateful for the harvest and simultaneously completely over the harvest. High capacity without rest leads to depletion, even when it’s filled with things you love. It’s okay to say, "This is wonderful, and I'm done for tonight."

And leave the raspberries for the chickens.

You know when your brain just feels discombobulated? I've been sitting at the computer, staring at the same sentence, reading it over and over, and just not getting anywhere with it.

The thing that resets me almost every time isn't more effort or pushing through. It's changing the scenery entirely. I get up, go outside, and within seconds something shifts.

Today it was my garden. I stood in front of my poppies, just enjoying them, and I could feel my whole state change.

Being outside can help regulate your nervous system, lower cortisol, and pull you out of that tight, over-focused headspace. And when your nervous system begins to settle, clarity often follows. You cannot force a clear mind from a body that's still activated.

So now, when I hit that wall at the computer, I don't sit there and grind through it. I go outside, because even five minutes can change something.

This is the kind of connection between your brain, body, and nervous system that we explore in "Where Did My Brain Go?" If brain fog has you staring at the same sentence, losing your train of thought, or wondering where your clarity went, you can learn more about the course here:
https://www.carlawainwright.com/where-did-my-brain-go

A month ago, I went dancing with friends and hurt my neck. I felt it happen, and I knew I had a choice: stop and take it easy, or keep going and stay in the fun. I kept going.

I paid for it later. My neck and upper back seized up, I didn't sleep that night, and the brain fog I'd worked so hard to move through came back. I was stopping mid-sentence, losing simple words, and struggling to think clearly. My confidence seemed to disappear right along with my clarity.

My body had told me to slow down, and I'd overridden it. What helped bring me back was doing less, not more. A slow, gentle version of kapalabhati breathing helped release some of the tension I was holding and supported my nervous system in settling, which helped me feel clearer and more grounded again.

It's a reminder of why I created "Where Did My Brain Go?" Brain fog can affect so much more than memory. If you've been struggling with focus, losing words, or simply not feeling like yourself, you'll find tools and support inside the course to help you understand what's happening and work with your body rather than against it.

Learn more here: https://www.carlawainwright.com/where-did-my-brain-go