The Art of the In-Between

I thought I’d know who I was by now.

And while I know myself more deeply than ever, there are still pieces of me shifting, reshaping, becoming.

But maybe the most honest thing I can say is: I’m in the in-between.

Not lost. Not broken. Not spiraling. But not fully arrived either.

On the cusp, one foot across the threshold, but uncertain of where it’ll land.

That sense that something is coming with this new season, as one is ending.

I felt it on a quiet morning away on a recent trip, sitting on the beach with the wind in my hair and the salt air softening everything sharp. The waves rolled in and out, steady and indifferent, as my friends played in the surf, laughing and drifting. I stayed still.

For once, I didn’t reach. I didn’t orchestrate the moment. I didn’t fill the space with effort.

I just let it be.

And in that stillness, I realized something I hadn’t been ready to see before: the pause isn’t passive. It’s powerful. It’s where I learn to receive instead of chase. To trust what flows toward me instead of clinging to what I’ve always tried to hold together.

That morning, I didn’t need to do anything to be in the moment.

I just had to be there.

And when I stopped trying to manage the moment, connection happened, organically, gently, without force. I was able to fully receive it. Not because I reached for it, but because I made space for it to arrive.

I’m realizing this isn’t just about one beach morning or one trip. It’s showing up in how I connect with others too.

In this season, I’m learning to stay with the moment, even when it’s uncertain, even when I ache for answers. I’m learning to let people show me who they are without rushing to define what it means. To hold desire without grasping. To trust that if something is meant to deepen, it won’t need rescuing. It will rise.

This season feels like a hallway. A sacred, slightly echoey space between who I used to be and whoever I’m becoming next. It’s quiet here, but not empty. The silence is full of questions I haven’t answered yet, stories I’ve paused mid-chapter, and lessons that are still unfolding in real time.

After ending the Confessions of a Late Bloomer series, I expected a sense of closure. A little exhale. Instead, I felt a strange spaciousness. Like a stage reset between acts. Like something was quietly rearranging itself inside me.

I didn’t feel finished. I felt like I had arrived at the mouth of something bigger. Something more honest. Something that wouldn’t let itself be wrapped in a bow and declared “done.”

And that sense stayed with me. It followed me into the days after, into the way I moved through my work, my relationships, my inner dialogue. It made me hyper-aware of every moment I was tempted to rush, to fix, to define. Like everything I’ve been learning is settling in to stay, not demanding attention, but insisting on presence.

And I’ve learned not to rush that.

Because what if the in-between is the becoming? What if pause is not the absence of momentum, but the deep work of integration?

Like the butterfly who has become, but still hasn’t emerged from the cocoon.

I’ve been shedding outdated roles: the overfunctioner, the one who performs for love, the woman who stays quiet to keep the peace. I’ve been laying down my armor, the protection I no longer need. These roles once kept me safe, or at least, helped me belong. But they don’t fit anymore. And they never made me feel fully seen.

Now, I’m trading control for curiosity. Urgency for trust. Busyness for embodiment. The kind of strength I’m growing now doesn’t roar; it roots. It softens. It listens. It waits for resonance, not validation.

In their place, I feel a new kind of self taking shape: one who trusts her timing. Who embraces desire without apology. Who no longer waits to be chosen, but chooses herself every damn day. Who’s learning to receive, not rushing to fill the space. Who doesn’t chase every flicker of connection to prove her worth, but allows the real ones to unfold in their own time.

I don’t want to skip this part. I don’t want to rush into the next shiny thing just to feel in control. Even though it’s tempting to force clarity, to conjure a next step just to know where it’ll land. I want to honor this strange and sacred chrysalis space. The not-yet. The almost. The quiet before the clarity.

I don’t know what’s next, but I trust that it’s rooted in truth, softness, and a kind of joy that doesn’t ask me to shrink.

So if you’re here too – in the fog, in the floating, in the tender hush of almost-knowing – I see you.

You’re in progress. And you’re allowed to be a masterpiece and a work-in-progress at the exact same time.

Always,
Your Trusted Friend ❤