CHAPTER 0.5: THE IN-BETWEEN

I’ve learned that not every ending happens all at once. Sometimes it starts as a slow unraveling — quiet, subtle, almost unnoticeable — until suddenly, it’s not. Until the cracks you’ve been patching for years give way, and everything you’ve built comes crashing down faster than you ever thought it could. One minute you’re holding it all together, and the next you’re standing in the wreckage of a life you no longer recognize.

For the last eight years, I was building a dream. Not just any dream — our dream. The vision of stability, family, and love that I thought would last forever. I wanted a steady home for my son, one place where his childhood memories would live — where he’d know what “home” felt like in his bones. I wanted roots. Safety. A sense of permanence that I never really had growing up.

And for a while, it looked like that was exactly what we were creating. We had the animals, the garden, the plans. There was always a new project, a new idea, something to build, something to fix. It was constant motion — and I think, in some ways, that motion kept me from sitting still long enough to notice how much of myself I was losing along the way.

I poured everything into that dream. Every ounce of energy, every bit of hope, every late-night conversation and early-morning worry. I became a version of myself who knew how to hold everything together — the home, the relationship, the family, the image. I stayed in masculine mode: push harder, keep going, figure it out, don’t fall apart.

But eventually, things did fall apart — because they had to. And deciding to walk away from it all wasn’t just a breakup; it was a death.

It was the death of the version of me who believed that stability meant staying, no matter how much it cost me. The death of a woman who thought that love and sacrifice were the same thing. The death of the dream I had wrapped my entire identity around.

And honestly, it was devastating. There’s no poetic way to say it — it gutted me.

Packing boxes felt like ripping pages out of a story I still wanted to live inside. Every room held echoes — the corner where my son learned to tie his shoes, the window to the driveway where he learned to ride his bike, the kitchen where we baked birthday cakes and painted messy art projects, the living room that turned into a jungle of pillow forts and laughter. Those walls saw him lose teeth, outgrow clothes, and mark his height on the doorframe year after year. But they also held the nights I cried myself to sleep. They held the secrets I tried to ignore, the tension I smoothed over for the sake of peace, the those walls turned love into prison bars.

What once felt like safety started to feel like a cage. The walls that saw my son grow were the same walls that witnessed me breaking down. It’s a strange kind of grief when the place that once held your joy starts holding your pain. You don’t just lose a home — you lose a version of yourself that believed it was forever.

Walking out that final day was brutal. My heart felt split — part of me mourning the life I thought I’d have, part of me quietly whispering that I couldn’t stay another second. I remember sitting in the car, staring at the driveway, and realizing that I had no idea what came next. And for the first time, I didn’t have a plan.

Now, I’m in what I call the in-between. The space after the storm, before the next sunrise.

It’s weird here — almost unnervingly quiet. I wake up, make coffee, get my son ready, go to the studio, come home, repeat. Life feels slower, simpler… but also a little hollow. I’m existing, not thriving. Functioning, but not chasing. It’s like my soul is still trying to catch up to my body.

I’m no stranger to transition. My life has rarely followed a straight path, and I’ve learned how to pivot and rebuild more times than I can count. I used to rush through pain, keeping myself busy so I didn’t have to feel it. But the last decade or so of my healing journey has taught me how to sit with the pain — to let it move through instead of trying to outwork it.

Still, this season is different. There’s something about this one that cuts deeper. Maybe it’s because there’s a child involved now — a little soul who didn’t ask for change, who deserves stability. That’s where the guilt hits hardest. I wanted him to have that one forever home, those roots, those memories all in one place. And now, even though I know this move was the right thing — the healthy thing — part of me aches with guilt that I couldn’t make it work the way I once dreamed.

So here I am, navigating this in-between space where I’m both feeling and fighting. I do let myself feel — the grief, the confusion, the guilt, all of it. But at the same time, I notice my nervous system creeping back into old habits, whispering that I should do something about it. That I should fix it, plan it, make sense of it. And then I catch myself — take a breath — and remind that part of me that it’s okay to just be here.

It’s messy. Some days I manage to breathe through it gracefully, and others I completely fall apart. There are nights where I cry until my body aches, where my chest tightens and I feel like I can’t catch my breath. And then there are mornings I wake up, pour my coffee, and somehow feel okay again.

I’m learning that both can exist — the ache and the acceptance. The grief and the grace. That maybe I don’t need to choose one.

And maybe that’s the real work of this in-between — not avoiding the discomfort, not rushing toward the “next thing,” but learning how to hold both the ache and the awe in the same breath.

And as uncomfortable as it is, something deep inside keeps whispering, “Stay here.”Stay present.

Stop trying to force the next chapter to reveal itself.

Stop filling the silence with noise.

Stop running from the space between what was and what’s coming.

This is the first time in my life I haven’t had a blueprint — and weirdly, I’m starting to find a little peace in that. I’m beginning to see that maybe the in-between isn’t punishment. Maybe it’s grace.

It’s the slow, steady heartbeat after a long cry. It’s the breath you take before you speak a new truth. It’s the moment life asks you to sit still so your soul can rearrange itself.

The days are repetitive. The excitement has dulled. But inside the monotony, I’m noticing small moments of beauty — the way sunlight hits my living-room wall, the sound of my son’s laugh cutting through the quiet, the calm that comes when there’s finally nothing left to prove.

After years of chaos, I think I’m learning that “boring” can actually mean “peaceful.”That being still isn’t the same as being stuck. That slowing down isn’t losing momentum — it’s regaining presence.

I don’t know what’s next, but I’m not wasting peace trying to figure it out. This chapter isn’t about fixing or figuring it out. It’s about trusting that not knowing is okay. It’s about allowing myself to be guided by something unseen — intuition, grace, whatever you want to call it — and surrendering to the idea that maybe the next step will find me when I’m ready.

This is Chapter 0.5: The In-Between. It’s awkward and quiet and full of unanswered questions. But it’s also tender. Honest. Alive.

And maybe that’s what this whole season is really about — learning to rebuild without rushing, learning to feel without fear, learning to trust the pause instead of fighting it.

So yeah, right now I’m just here. Existing. Healing.Learning to find beauty in the ordinary.

And somehow, that feels like the bravest thing I’ve ever done.