In the Space Between

A reflection on lingering in the unknown and embracing this season of stillness

What do you do when you don’t know what’s next?

From what I’ve experienced—and maybe you have too—we’re taught always to know. To have a plan. To move quickly. To pull out our phone and fill the quiet with something, anything.

But what if we resisted that instinct?

I know so many of us—including myself—have already been handed a lot this year. Maybe you’ve lost a job. Maybe a loved one. Or maybe you just feel lost, like the ground beneath you is shifting and you’re not quite sure where it’s all leading.

I chose stillness. Or rather, I found myself craving it. I began retreating from social gatherings, only committing to the bare minimum, and making space to just be with myself.

I let go of the need to be productive every moment of every day. At first, it felt unnatural—not logging into Slack, not having an office, not measuring my days by deadlines. But it also felt right.

The timing gave me something rare. The space to grieve without the pressure to perform. To stop pretending I was fine when I wasn’t.

And in the quiet, I started to notice things I hadn’t before.

The stillness—it cracked me open.

What they don’t tell you is that stillness isn’t always peaceful. Sometimes it’s uncomfortable, even painful. It brings you face-to-face with the things you’ve been avoiding—memories tucked away, unprocessed regrets, and the parts of yourself that have gone silent over time. Stillness creates space for what’s been waiting to rise to the surface. It reminds you that grief and clarity can coexist. That in this quiet, forgotten parts of you begin to stir—ready to be reclaimed.

Some days were expansive, filled with small joys simply because I had space to notice them.

Other days, I wept.

This space—the in-between—is strange and sacred. A place of softness and ache. Breakthroughs and breakdowns.

But it’s also where beauty lives. In the way morning light hits the kitchen table. In the grounding of incense smoke curling through the air. In the quiet ritual of coffee, or baking banana bread just because. In the silence of visiting my grandparents’ grave and somehow still feeling them there.

And it reminded me—rest is a form of resistance.

We live in a world that glorifies overwork, urgency, and output. But for what? A life lived at warp speed? A to-do list that never ends?

Stillness forced me to confront myself. To linger a little longer in the in-between—with no destination in sight.

It reminded me that creativity isn’t about constantly producing. It’s about presence. It’s about noticing.

And here’s the paradox—it was in doing nothing that I was actually doing everything.

Listening to my body. Honoring my grief. Letting clarity arrive—not as a plan, but as a feeling.

As a deep knowing.

That I want to build a life that feels aligned. That rest, play, and pause aren’t luxuries—they’re lifelines.

As Julia Cameron writes in The Artist’s Way, it’s in solitude and slowness that creativity returns. That new desires and dreams begin to surface.

So I’ll leave you with this—

How do you sit with the in-between?

What would it look like to reclaim your rest?
To reject urgency?
To simply exist without guilt?

Let’s start there.

And if you’re in the thick of it like I am, remember…

Choosing to pause, to breathe, to rest—is powerful.

It’s enough.
You’re enough.