Sometimes I need to be reminded of who I am.
There are periods—days, weeks even—when I feel off kilter, untethered, floating above myself, wandering in the void.
Lately I’ve been tired—soul tired, bone tired. I’ve felt the discomfort of being IN BETWEEN. In between projects. In between living spaces. In between one skin I’m shedding and the new one I’ll soon occupy. Moving homes is destabilizing. As of this moment, I am slated to be out of my current apt in ten days and have yet to sign a lease for one of two places I might be moving into. I haven’t packed a box.
Everything is unsure, up in the air, left to the gods. I am in between, both physically and emotionally. Part of me is sad to vacate my current home—my beautiful backyard, the memories, the late afternoon sun that shines on my west-facing patio.
I’ve always hated moving. A lifelong hermit and homebody, I tend to get attached to my living spaces.
When I was 13 years old, I moved out of the house in which I’d lived the entirety of my childhood, and it was devastating. I can still feel that house—it’s walls embedded in my bones.
Years later, as I packed up the Baltimore apartment in which I’d lived the previous 7 years, I felt that familiar pang of bittersweetness. Something new was brewing, yes, but only in the wake of something being left behind.
Another part of me is excited to cut this cord in it’s entirety; not all of the memories are good. I will finally live in a home that was never infected by my ex husband’s presence, and that is not a small thing. A new neighborhood. A new chapter. New memories.
I’m ready. Ready to burn it all down and build something new atop the ashes. But I am still, as it seems, in between.
The liminal space—that is to say, the space between what was and what will be—can be extraordinarily uncomfortable. We’re forced to stand in the threshold between here and there, the uncertainty of our very existence, let alone the details of it. If we’re not careful, what is meant to expand us can instead leave us feeling fractured, wistful, or worse yet, trapped.
But the liminal space is not purgatory—there is always a way out, whether forwards or sideways, that carries the promise of transformation. If we can remind ourselves of who we are and tether ourselves to our own divinity, we can navigate this space in ways that invite expansion, not fear. We just need to practice the kind of soul maintenance that brings us back to ourselves.
My soul maintenance consists of nature, movement, music, magic, and art. When I have my hands in the dirt, on a barbell, or wrapped around a pen, I remember who I am. I come back to myself in waves, in whispers. I know that I can live in the in between just as much as I know I don’t want to. But I’m here. And I’m breathing. And I’m capable.
And I know you are too.
When you’re in those liminal spaces, remember your soul maintenance, boo. As you linger in the threshold, stay grounded. Stay close to the things that remind you who you are.