Lately, I’ve been living in-between things.
In-between projects. In-between places. In-between what feels like the start of something and the end of something else.
It used to make me anxious, that space where nothing feels certain. But I’m beginning to see it a little differently now. There’s something clean about it. Something real. Like the world pauses long enough for you to catch your breath.
The in-between is where I make sense of things. It’s quiet, but it’s honest. There’s no big storyline or final scene, just the slow rhythm of showing up. Eating, thinking, walking, writing. Trying again.
I think that’s the part no one tells you about growing up: you spend most of your time in-between.
Waiting for something, getting over something, building something small you’re not sure will last.
And maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s life.
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