Working Remote Solo Parenting: Why You Feel That Sudden Void (And If It’s Normal)
The door clicked shut at 2:14 pm yesterday, and I was alone. Half an hour earlier, my 7-year-old had begged to join her friend for an impromptu park playdate, I’d scrambled to find her socks and slather sunscreen on her cheeks, and off they went. I’d spent the entire morning juggling three Zoom calls and negotiating how many goldfish crackers count as a reasonable pre-playdate snack, and I’d been daydreaming about 20 uninterrupted minutes to finish my product launch draft for hours.
But there I was, alone, crumbs in my wireless mouse and a coffee ring bleaching the corner of my work notebook, and I couldn’t move. I just stood by the entryway, staring at the hook where my daughter hangs her rainbow backpack, and felt this weird hollow feeling spread through my chest. No deadlines suddenly screaming at me, no little voice asking “what are we doing next?” just quiet. It wasn’t relief. It was a void.
I pulled out my phone and texted my friend Liza, who also works remote solo while her husband travels for work most weeks. “Is this weird? I finally got the alone time I’ve been begging for and I just feel empty,” I wrote. She texted back 30 seconds later: “Happens to me every Tuesday when my son leaves for soccer practice. I sit on the front step for 10 minutes staring at my shoes. I call it the void too.”
That’s when I realized how many of us don’t talk about this. We talk about the chaos of remote work solo parenting: the interrupted calls, the packing snacks while on hold, the constant guilt that you’re bad at both work and parenting. We talk about craving a minute to ourselves. No one talks about what happens when you actually get that minute.
Over the past year of this schedule, I’ve noticed the void pops up in all kinds of small moments: when my daughter falls asleep early with a fever, when she heads off to after-school camp for the day, when she’s quietly occupied with a new Lego set for an hour and then suddenly asks to be taken to a friend’s house. It’s not that I don’t want her gone, or that I’m sad to be alone. It’s just that the space where she (and my constant, low-level attention to her) was suddenly feels hollow.
I talked about this a few months ago with a pediatric occupational therapist I know through the school PTA, and she put it in plain terms that stuck with me. When you’re solo parenting during the workday, your brain never fully switches into work mode or parenting mode. You’re running on split attention the whole time: part of your brain is working through a spreadsheet, and another quieter part is constantly scanning for sounds of trouble, checking the clock for snack time, ready to pause whatever you’re doing the second you’re needed. That background activation doesn’t just turn off the second your kid walks out the door. It leaves a gap where that constant low-level work was, and that gap feels like a void. It’s not a mental health crisis. It’s just how your brain works.
It’s normal, I’ve learned, but that doesn’t mean it has to derail your day. I’ve tried a few small things that make it easier, and they don’t take any extra time or money. First, I stopped forcing myself to jump straight into work the second I’m alone. I used to feel guilty for wasting the precious alone time I got, so I’d drag myself to my desk and stare at my screen for 20 minutes, getting more frustrated and more empty by the minute. Now I build in a 5-minute transition buffer, no exceptions. I keep it simple: I make a new cup of tea, water the two sad pothos on my kitchen windowsill, and walk around the block once. I don’t check emails, I don’t think about my to-do list. I just let that part of my brain that’s been on kid duty wind down slowly.
I also keep a sticky note that says “5 minute buffer” stuck to the corner of my monitor. That way, when I suddenly get free time and my brain is still fuzzy, I see it and remember I don’t have to push through the void.
Of course, sometimes the void is more than just transition. If it lingers all day, if you feel that hollow even when your kid is home, that’s a sign you might need more support—more help with childcare, a day off, a chat with a doctor. But that occasional sudden void when you’re juggling work and solo parenting? It’s as normal as the interrupted Zoom calls and the goldfish crumbs in your keyboard.
Last week, I mentioned the void to another mom at the school pickup line, and she nodded so hard her sunglasses fell off. She works remote too, her husband works out of town during the week, and she said she gets it every single Wednesday when her kid goes to after-school art. She said she used to think she was going crazy, that she should be happy to have the time alone. Now she just stands in her driveway and waits for the feeling to pass.
Today, after the playdate, I did my 5 minute buffer. I watered the pothos, I ate the half-eaten granola bar I’d left on the counter that morning, and I stood on my front porch watching the neighbor’s golden retriever walk by. Then I went back to my desk, finished my launch draft, and sent it off 12 minutes before my daughter’s friend’s mom texted that they were ready to be picked up. I still get the void sometimes, it still catches me off guard. I don’t think it’s going to go away completely as long as this is my daily schedule. But I don’t fight it anymore. I just let it sit for five minutes, and it usually fades on its own.
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