There’s a quiet stretch of life that doesn’t get talked about much — the space after something has ended, but before what’s next has begun.
It can happen after a big decision, a shift in work or relationships, or even just the quiet realisation that you’ve outgrown a version of yourself. You may have stepped away from something that once felt safe — a rhythm, a dream, a role, a way of being that no longer fits. You can’t quite return to how things were, but the path ahead isn’t yet clear either.
And so you wait — in that still, echoing place where your old life has gone quiet and your new one hasn’t yet begun to speak.
It’s a lonely kind of waiting. A space filled with both relief and grief, where you wonder who you are now, what you want, and who you might still become. You keep hoping the light will go on soon, to show you where to step next. But for now, you’re simply standing in the threshold — between endings and beginnings — and learning how to breathe there.
My Own Experience of the In-Between
I’ve lived in this space more than once. After my burnout, when I stepped away from the life I’d built and wasn’t yet sure what would replace it. After our move to the countryside, when the old rhythm had gone but the new one hadn’t yet settled. After moments of realising, quietly and without drama, that who I had been no longer quite fit who I was becoming.
Each time, the instinct was the same: to rush. To fill the silence. To make something happen so the uncertainty would end.
Each time, the most important thing I could do was resist that instinct — and learn, slowly, to sit with myself in the unfamiliar quiet. To trust that the not-knowing was not a failure, but a necessary part of what comes next.
The Nature of the In-Between
Anthropologists call this kind of space liminal — from the Latin līmen, meaning “a threshold.” It’s the middle stage of transformation, where you are no longer what you were, but not yet what you will become.
It has its own quiet rhythm:
A void of certainty. The old structures, routines, and identities have loosened their hold, but new ones haven’t yet formed. That openness can feel confusing or even frightening — but it’s also where possibility lives. Nothing is fixed yet. Which means nothing is impossible yet either.
Potential and uncertainty living side by side. Because nothing is fixed, everything is possible. This can feel vast and dizzying, like standing in front of a blank canvas. The trick is not to fill it too fast — to let your next shape reveal itself naturally, in its own time.
Rest as integration, not avoidance. You’ve already done something brave: you’ve made a change, or had one made for you. This is the time when your mind, heart, and spirit are catching up. Rest here is not laziness. It’s the quiet, invisible work of becoming.
How to Move Gently Through the In-Between
1. Choose stillness over urgency.
When everything feels uncertain, the instinct is to rush toward answers — to make the next plan, to fill the silence, to do something that feels like progress.
But the in-between is not a problem to be solved. It’s a season to be lived.
Stillness can come in unexpected forms— not just silence, but the gentle rhythm of sounds that ground you: rain against a window, birdsong in the morning, the quiet hum of a familiar space. These are not distractions from the in-between. They’re a way of being present within it.
Try to be present with what’s simple and grounding: a slow walk, a nourishing meal, a quiet evening ritual that signals to your body that today was enough. These small practices are how you build a bridge toward what’s next — not by forcing it, but by staying steady while it forms.
2. Reflect, don’t analyse.
You closed a door — or maybe just a chapter — for a reason. This time isn’t for rewriting the past, but for understanding it gently.
Ask yourself: what did that season teach me? What parts of me feel ready to grow? What can I lovingly set down?
When you listen softly, your next direction often begins to whisper back. Not loudly. Not all at once. But enough.
3. Experiment lightly.
When you feel ready — and only then — follow your curiosity in small ways. Try something new without pressure. A hobby, a class, a book, a conversation. Tell yourself: this is just exploration. I don’t have to know yet where it leads.
The in-between is actually one of the most creative periods of a life, precisely because nothing is fixed. You’re not locked into anything yet. That’s not only frightening — it’s also quietly extraordinary.
What the In-Between Is Teaching You
The in-between may not sparkle. It may feel quiet and raw, as though you’ve been emptied out.
But this is where the next version of you begins to take shape — not through force, but through gentle becoming. Not by rushing toward the next chapter, but by honouring the pause between them.
You’ve already done the hardest part: stepping away from what no longer fits, or allowing life to step you away from it. Now, give yourself time. Give yourself grace. Give yourself permission to not yet know.
Clarity will come. Not because you forced it — but because you made space for it.
And in the meantime, you are not behind. You are not lost. You are exactly where this part of the journey requires you to be.
The in-between often calls us back toward the natural world — toward rhythms older and steadier than our own uncertainty. Rewilding Our Daily Lives is a gentle reflection on how small encounters with nature can restore a sense of groundedness when everything else feels unclear. And if the not-knowing feels heavy right now, You Don’t Have to Have It All Figured Out is a quiet reminder that uncertainty is not a problem to solve — it’s a space to inhabit.