The Sacred Space Between

I'm sitting in my kitchen this morning, coffee getting cold, and I'm checking my phone for updates from my child traveling. They're out there having their adventures, growing into who they're supposed to be, while I'm here looking at everything I've built and wondering what comes next.

My company is thriving, and I've checked off most of the goals I set years ago. But instead of feeling triumphant, I'm in this strange space waiting for the next spark, the vision that will pull me forward. Success, it turns out, creates its kind of transition.

It got me thinking about all the times I've rushed through changes, desperate to get to the "after" part of my story—the part where everything makes sense again and I know exactly where I'm headed.

But what if the middle part—the messy, uncomfortable, don't-know-what's-next part—is just as important?

We're Terrible at Waiting

Our whole world tells us to hurry up and figure it out. Got laid off? Start networking immediately. Ended a relationship? Get back out there. Lost someone you love? Here's a timeline for grief that makes everyone else comfortable.

We treat transitions like inconveniences instead of what they are: the space where real change happens.

I used to think something was wrong when I couldn't bounce back quickly. When I needed time to sit with what had ended, before I could even think about what came next. I felt lazy and stuck, like I was wasting time while everyone else moved forward.

Turns out I wasn't stuck at all. I was honoring something most people skip right over.

The Quiet Middle

There's this moment after you let go of something before you grasp what's next. It's terrifying because you're not who you used to be, but are not who you're becoming. You're just... there. Floating.

I've been in that space more times than I can count. After my dad died, I learned how to be someone whose father was gone. When my child started becoming more independent, I had to redefine what motherhood looked like. Having achieved what I set out to build, I am sensing something bigger waiting—I can't see its shape yet.

Each time, I wanted to sprint through it, get to the part where I had answers, where I felt solid again, and where I could update my Instagram bio with something that made sense.

But something kept making me slow down. Some voice that said, "Not yet."

What Lives in the Pause

You notice things when you stop trying to rush to the next chapter. Like how quiet it gets when you're not performing a version of yourself for other people. How much space opens up when you're not filling every moment with plans, goals, and the next thing?

You start to feel what you feel instead of what you think you should. You remember parts of yourself that got buried under all the roles you were playing. You discover you can survive without knowing what comes next.

The space between endings and beginnings isn't empty. It's full of possibilities that haven't taken shape yet. It's where you get to rest from being who you were and gather energy for who you're becoming.

Learning to Honor the In-Between

I'm not saying transitions are fun. They're not. It's uncomfortable to live in questions instead of answers. It feels vulnerable to admit you don't have it figured out when everyone around you knows exactly where they're going.

But what if we treated these times like they matter? What if we recognized it as sacred work instead of apologizing for being in transition?

Maybe that means saying no to things that don't feel right instead of jumping at the first opportunity. Perhaps it means letting yourself feel lost without immediately Googling "how to find your purpose." Maybe it means telling people, "I'm figuring it out," without following up with a timeline.

The Ground Beneath Your Feet

Here's what I know now that I wish I'd known at twenty-five: the space between endings and beginnings isn't a detour from your life. It IS your life. Some of the most critical growth you'll ever do happens when you can't see where you're going.

You're not falling behind. You're not broken. You're not doing it wrong.

You're where caterpillars become butterflies, seeds push through dark soil, and every critical change begins. It doesn't look much from the outside, but everything that matters is happening.

So maybe today, instead of pushing through to the next thing, you give yourself permission to be exactly where you are—in the tender space between what was and what's coming, in the quiet middle where everything begins to shift.

That ground you're standing on? It's sacred too.