Breathe

It feels a lot like someone pressed pause on my life.

Like I'm stuck in a waiting room with nothing but dog-eared magazines from the late 90s. I used to hate this feeling, but something's different this time. I think I’m starting to feel like maybe limbo is a natural part of life. Not a gap to rush through, but a strange, offbeat chapter that asks you to sit down, stay a while, and see what shows up when the noise dies down.

Right now, my life is one big in-between. I’m midway through a nomadic summer. Between homes, between projects, between versions of myself. I’m still adjusting to the strange quiet that follows loss. Nearly four months on from my mum’s death, I still find myself half-expecting a text or an eye-roll at something I’ve done. Her ashes are waiting to be scattered. I’m still figuring out when. Still figuring out everything, really.

And yet, something about this in-betweenness feels oddly familiar. I’ve had moments like this before... leaving a job without a plan, ending something before the next beginning appears. Times when I didn’t know what came next, just that something would.

Back then, I handled it poorly. Nervous waiting, second-guessing, hoping someone else might hand me the answer. This time, I’m trying to do it differently. Not perfectly. Just with a little more awareness. A little more grace.

I go on walks. I write messy thoughts in my notebook. I talk to friends about what I’m feeling, even when what I’m feeling is mostly “???”. I uninstall the apps that demand too much of me. Reinstall them. Uninstall them again. It's like a digital version of pacing a room.

I try to remember that being lost isn’t the same as being broken.

And then there's hope. Hope is weird. It's the quiet flatmate who doesn’t say much but always makes sure there’s oat milk in the fridge. It's just here, giving me somewhere to stand when everything else is moving.

It reminds me that I don’t need the full map to take the next step. Just a direction. A hunch. A heartbeat. And the tiniest sliver of solid ground.

I don’t know if I believe in signs or fate or divine timing. But I believe in paying attention. I believe in the people who show up when you least expect it. I believe in the power of admitting, “I don’t know.” Because sometimes that’s when the real answers start to surface.

This season has taught me that you don’t have to rush your way through uncertainty. You can live with it, even in it. Build campfires in the fog. Make toast. Text someone you miss. Write stories that don’t have endings yet.

Maybe limbo isn’t a failure of progress. Maybe it’s the part of the story where the main character stares out of a train window and something quietly changes.

Maybe being lost is just the start of being found.

So if you’re somewhere in the middle too, between griefs, between plans, between what was and what might be, consider this your gentle reminder: it’s okay to exhale before you have the next answer. It’s okay to be uncertain and hopeful at the same time. It’s okay to sit with the pause and see what it becomes. You don't have to hold your breath until it's all figured out. You’re allowed to toast crumpets at midday and call it progress. You’re allowed to be beautifully, bravely unfinished.

It's okay to breathe.