the in-between

a field note from the threshold

I took a short pause from writing. Or at least from writing in this form. The form that requires slowing down enough to feel, enough to name.

I’ve still been writing. A lot, actually. But in a different register: ad copy, SOPs, meeting agendas. Output with a purpose. Words meant to organize, to build, to move things forward.

Necessary words. But not the kind that offers relief. Not the kind that releases anything. Not the form of writing that feels like letting the pressure valve lift and the accumulation finally escape.

I re-immersed myself in my business. I became a student of it again. Peering into the gears. What is missing? What is needed? Where am I essential, and where am I in the way?

And underneath all of that, I feel a hum. A pulse I can’t ignore. A deep, almost cellular knowing that something is shifting. Not incrementally. Not subtly. But in that “my life will never be the same after this” kind of way.

It feels like I’m preparing for something. I don’t know what. I don’t think I am meant to know. My only job right now is to listen. To pay attention to the whispers. The ones that come in the form of conversations, gut pulls, inexplicable grief. To follow the flicker. To fan the ember.

And to not mistake the not-knowing for failure.

I’m asking new questions now. Not just “What does my business need from me?”
But, “What do I need from it?”
How do I want this to feel?
What am I actually building?
And with who? For who?

I don’t have those answers. But I hold the questions close, trusting that when I build with integrity, I build something that will serve the future version of me. The one I’m still becoming.

I do feel more grounded lately. More in tune with what matters to me. Less reactive. More reverent. But with that groundedness comes grief. Comes rupture. Because being aligned with myself often means dis-aligning with what used to make sense. Or with who I had to be to survive before.

And it seems like I’m not the only one. The people closest to me are shedding, too.
Relationships ending. Careers unraveling. Stories we’ve outgrown dissolving in real time.

The comfort of the past has expired. We can’t unknow what we now know.

It’s like we’re all on the same raft, out in open water, having jumped ship from whatever vessel no longer felt like home. We don’t know where we’re heading, but we know we couldn’t stay.

There’s an ache in that.
And also a kind of aliveness.

The old life, it was too tight. Too performative. Too full of “should.”
This new one? It’s unknown, yes. But it’s honest.
And even if I’m scared, I’m ready.

There’s nothing flashy about this part.
It’s quiet. Private. Sometimes boring. Sometimes terrifying.
It’s going to bed early. Crying in the car. Moving my body even when I don’t feel like it.
It’s staring at the ceiling and thinking, “I have no idea what’s next” and doing everything I can to not spiral.

It’s trusting that I am being shaped, even now. Especially now.

So I write. I listen. I stay close to the fire.

I have no way of knowing.
And yet, I trust.
I have faith.

And in that faith,
I move forward
convicted,
aligned,
and with purpose.

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Artwork: Woman Before the Rising Sun (Woman Before the Setting Sun) (c. 1818–20) by Caspar David Friedrich
Collection: Museum Folkwang, Essen, Germany