Yesterday I wrote about that quiet stretch of time where one chapter hasn’t quite ended and the next hasn’t fully begun. Today I’m still sitting with it — intentionally.
For the first time in a long time, I’ve chosen to feel the pause instead of rushing past it. No filling the space with noise. No forcing momentum. Just letting myself be in the in-between, even when it feels unfamiliar.
Lately, that pause has been filled with a kind of longing I didn’t expect. I find myself missing the old days — when my children were little, when life felt slower and louder all at once. I catch myself wishing I could go back for just a moment, to be in one of those quiet, sacred places that once held our small everyday magic.
The in-between doesn’t come with fireworks or fanfare. It feels like standing in a hallway with the lights dimmed, knowing you’re meant to walk through one of the doors, but not being sure which one yet. It can feel unproductive, even uncomfortable — like you should already have it figured out.
But this is where the real recalibration happens.
When you’re no longer chasing the old thing, but not yet committed to the new one, you finally get quiet enough to hear yourself again. You notice what feels heavy. What you’re done tolerating. What you’re ready to protect. The in-between is where your standards start to sharpen.
It’s where you stop asking, What do I want to do next? and start asking,
Who do I want to be when I get there?
There’s no checklist for this season. No timeline you can rush. It isn’t about forcing clarity — it’s about allowing it.
So if today feels slow, uncertain, or softly nostalgic, maybe that’s not a problem to fix. Maybe it’s the invitation. The pause before momentum. The breath before the shift.
I’m choosing to stay here just a little longer —
holding the memories gently, and trusting the next chapter is already forming.