In the In-Between

Reflections from the liminal space between lives

In a few weeks, I'll be embarking on a significant move across the ocean to start a new chapter in Europe. This transition has me existing in a strange liminal space — physically present in one life while mentally preparing for another. I'll be sharing more about this journey in future posts, but for now, I wanted to offer these reflections for anyone else who might find themselves in an in-between of their own.

It's busy in the in-between. 
This place between lives.

Like the airport, a whole lot of activity but mostly waiting. 
A rush to the gate just to sit and wait for boarding. 
The stress of the TSA line. 
Getting your shoes back on. 
Grabbing your bag, making sure no one else does.

It's so very loud in the in-between.
Notes to self screaming over the intercom: reminders, 
don't forget to pick up x, drop off y, research z...

And heavy. It's so heavy here. 
How is that possible when all I've been doing is lightening the load?

Like checking bags at the counter only to feel 
my shoulders still hunched with invisible weight.

Constant exhaustion crashes into hypervigilance, 
one feeding the other.

My body tense, eyes darting from task to task, caught 
between here and there.

Where was the line I crossed? 
When did it happen? 
How did I get here?

One minute I was living my normal routine, 
a routine I had only just settled into.
And all of a sudden I'm not there anymore.

Same space. 
Same surroundings. 
Same stuff.

But different.

There was no clear moment, no dramatic epiphany. 
Just a slow seeping awareness, 
like watercolor bleeding across the page.

The realization that I'm neither here nor there.
In limbo.

My body occupying the same space as yesterday 
but my mind already halfway across the ocean.
Present in fragments only, the rest of me scattered 
between what was and what will be.

And once you see it, it can't be unseen.

A transition from settled in, to unsettling.

Pull everything out of the drawers, the closets, from under the bed. 
All the nooks and crannies. 

Those safe hiding places now emptied; 
their contents laid bare.
What was comfortably out of sight now demands to be seen, 
to be dealt with.

More than will fit in two suitcases… 
By a lot.

Pictures. Documents. Letters. Books. Clothes. 
Objects that once seemed essential now exposed for judgment.

The collection of shells gathered during that summer of exploration.
Keep or leave?
The books I swore I'd read but have never made it out of the TBR pile.
Let go or one more chance?

And let's not even talk about the pictures.
Irreplaceable memories of times before digital.

Each item a decision, a tiny heartbreak or relief. 
Each one asking: Am I still part of your story?

How is it that there's still so much? 
No matter how many times I pare down, sort through, say goodbye,
there's always more hiding in corners, tucked in boxes,
waiting to be reconsidered.

As if things multiply when I'm not looking.

Everything feels so expensive in the in-between. 
Overpriced and low on nutrients. 
Convenience over substance.

A low hum of anxiety always in the background.

Knowing you are about to give up control.
All of it.
And take a ride in a very heavy metal object 
that will, somehow, glide in the air, over oceans.

A bridge connecting you from one life to another, 
one continent to another, one world to another.
Another very different one.

New language.
New customs.
None of it you know.

Excitement mixed with fear.
One and the same they say.

I catch myself whispering "I'm so excited" out loud,
only to be stopped in my tracks with panic moments later.

This dance of contradictions: 
wanting the familiar comfort 
of what I know
while craving the thrill 
of what I don't.

Grief sneaks in unexpectedly.

Not just for people long gone, but 
for versions of myself I'm leaving behind.
Well-worn paths and routines.
For the certainty of knowing exactly where I am.

For the physical remnants of those no longer here.
These photos, letters, trinkets becoming precious beyond reason
when they're all that remains.

How strange to hold a photograph that bridges worlds —
the person I was then, the people I've loved and lost,
and somehow, mysteriously, 
the person I am becoming.

All existing in this single, fragile piece of paper.

The past and future collide in strange ways here.

Some relationships feel closer than ever 
despite knowing we'll soon be oceans apart;
conversations deeper, more urgent, more real.

With others, it feels as if the physical miles have arrived 
before my actual departure.

Messages light up my phone,
words that pull me back into this reality 
when my mind has already started to wander elsewhere.

The guilt of leaving, especially now, when so much feels unsettled.

For the next two weeks am I just existing?

Be present.
But how can I?
There is so much to do.

The piles expand in defiance of my efforts.

Time follows different rules 
here in the in-between.

Hours disappear in an instant, 
yet minutes stretch endlessly without reason.
A day of effort yields nothing visible,
while a five-minute decision feels monumental.

The ordinary tasks of living — cooking, cleaning, sleeping —
now feel like interruptions to the real work of leaving.

Seriously, when did it happen?
When did I cross this divide into the in-between?

I don't want to go back. 
And yet I find it difficult to move forward.

The clock ticking too fast and too slow all at once.

Counting down the minutes, seconds until…what?

I long to be free of all 
the stuff.
And all the decisions that come 
with it.

Yet I know those decisions will soon be replaced with others.
What street to go down.
What place to explore.

My attention, now consumed by the vestiges of my old lives,
will soon be seized by all the newness.

Will my luggage arrive? Will I?

I'll leave my bags and trust they'll meet me on the other side.

Right now I carry only what I can.

This strange mix of nostalgia and anticipation:
heart both heavy and light,
simultaneously mourning what I'm leaving
while yearning for what I've yet to discover.

I slip a small photograph between the pages of my journal.

The frame stays behind.

I'll navigate this crossing — 
holding tight to what matters, 
releasing the rest to make way for what's next.