I have often wished that transitions came with a map. A well-marked trail, a clear set of instructions, perhaps a kindly guide with a lantern who knows the way and will guide me with ease and confidence from here to there. Instead, they arrive like unexpected houseguests—disruptive, inconvenient, and completely uninterested in whether I feel ready for them or not.
One day, life feels steady. The next, something shifts. A door closes. An old identity crumbles. The familiar dissolves into something unrecognizable. And suddenly, we are in the in-between—no longer where we were, not yet where we are going.
I have spent a great deal of time in the in-between, over the years and decades. Enough to know that it is both wildly uncomfortable and profoundly alive. It is a space of undoing and becoming, where everything that once felt solid turns to sand beneath our feet. And yet, there is something sacred in this unraveling, something necessary in the dissolution of the old before the arrival of the new. I’d like to say that I recognize these times better now than in the past, and am able to welcome them with at least a hint of a smile. Deep down, though, I know that it is not always the case, and I too get caught in the (at least) initial discomfort. It is the Discomfort of Not Knowing.
“Water does not resist. Water flows. When you plunge your hand into it, all you feel is a caress. Water is not a solid wall, it will not stop you. But water always goes where it wants to go, and nothing in the end can stand against it. Water is patient. Dripping water wears away a stone. Remember that, my child. Remember you are half water. If you can’t go through an obstacle, go around it. Water does.” – Margaret Atwood
I remember arriving to Montreal, Canada, a very long time ago. We landed late Saturday night and the son of the “lawyer” (who arranged our visas and a landed immigrant status) picked us up and dropped us at a hotel in Montreal. And told us he will meet us Monday morning to start helping us get settled, and left. We went to sleep and woke up Sunday morning, jet-lagged and hungry, and went out to look for a place to eat. It was early and almost everything was still closed, and we found ourselves meandering through foreign streets, city, and culture, being thrown quite abruptly into that in-between unknown state. “Now what?” (though, in Russian, there is a much juicier version of this phrase that we used at the time).
Transitions have a way of stripping us down to the essentials. They take our well-constructed plans, our carefully curated identities, and toss them into the wind like autumn leaves. And in the absence of certainty, we are left with the one thing we so often avoid—ourselves. Stripped down of our protective layers of beliefs, plans, ideas, wishes, and personalities. It is deeply uncomfortable to not know. To not have the answers. To sit in the rawness of uncertainty without rushing to fill the space with premature solutions. And yet, this is where the real work happens. This is where we learn to listen—to the quiet whispers beneath the noise, to the wisdom that only speaks when we stop trying to control the outcome.
I have resisted this space more times than I can count. Tried to force clarity when none was ready to come. Clung to the edges of the old, afraid to fully let go. Tried to negotiate my way around the pain and the fear during my colon cancer journey. But transitions, much like the tides, do not operate on our timeline. They unfold in their own rhythm, demanding our trust long before offering us answers. Yearning and begging for answers is what I call “The Illusion of the Straight Line.”
“Without order, nothing can exist. Without chaos, nothing can evolve.” – Oscar Wilde
We like to imagine that life moves in a straight line, where one step logically following the next, leading us toward some well-defined destination. But anyone who has truly lived knows that this is nonsense. Life is not linear, despite what many societal and educational “wisdoms” try to ingrain (indoctrinate) in us. It is cyclical, unpredictable, wild in its unfolding. Transitions refuse to fit into tidy narratives. They twist and turn, doubling back on themselves just when we think we’ve figured them out. They demand patience when we are desperate for momentum. They invite us to linger in the unknown, to let go of our desperate need for control, to trust that what is dissolving is making space for something we cannot yet see.
And so, we learn to navigate by feel. To move not from certainty, but from presence. To take the next step—not because we know exactly where it leads, but because it is the one that calls to us now. And presence, I suggest, is an essential ingredient in “Finding the Thread.”
In the midst of transition, it can feel as though everything is unraveling. And maybe, in some ways, it is. But I have come to believe that even in the undoing, there is a thread that runs through it all—a thread of meaning, of growth, of something deeper trying to emerge. Sometimes, we find it in the smallest of moments. A conversation that shifts our perspective. A book that finds us at the exact right time. A walk in the woods where, for a brief moment, the weight of uncertainty lifts, and we remember that we are part of something vast and alive. A cuddle with my puppy, allowing me to feel her soft and loving presence, reminding me that – in this particular moment – I am trusted, loved, and am a haven for safety, even in the moments where I see my life as I knew it collapsing away.
Other times, the thread reveals itself only in hindsight. Only when we have reached the other side and can look back and see the strange, intricate beauty of the path we never would have chosen but somehow needed to walk.
“Liminal space – the space between no longer and not yet.” – anonymous
The secret, if there really is one, is “Trusting the Unfolding.” If I have learned anything from navigating transitions, it is this: Life knows what it is doing. Even when I don’t (which is quite often the case). Especially then! The mind will panic, will demand certainty, will try to grip onto anything that feels solid. But if we can soften—if we can lean into the discomfort rather than resist it—something shifts. We stop grasping for answers and start listening for truth. We stop trying to force clarity and allow the next step to find us.
There is no perfect way to navigate transition. No guaranteed formula, no five-step plan to bypass the messiness of change. But there is trust. And presence. And a willingness to meet ourselves exactly where we are, even when where we are feels like free-fall.
And maybe, just maybe, that is enough.
