There is a version of me I can still feel,
but no longer reach.

She lingers in small things—
in the way I almost respond to my own name,
in the reflex of old habits that don’t quite fit anymore,
in memories that feel closer than they should.

Not gone.
Not here.
Just… suspended.

---

I don’t think people talk enough about this part.

The in-between.

Not the beginning, where everything is breaking.
Not the end, where everything makes sense again.

But this—

this quiet, disorienting middle
where nothing is fully one thing or the other.

Where you’re no longer who you were,
but not yet someone new.

---

It doesn’t feel like growth.

It feels like standing in a doorway that never fully opens,
watching pieces of yourself exist on both sides
without knowing which one you’re supposed to follow.

Some days, I move forward without thinking.
Other days, I feel like I’ve slipped backward into a version of myself I thought I had already left behind.

And neither one feels entirely wrong.

---

There’s a strange kind of grief here.

Not for something lost in a clean, final way—
but for something that is fading unevenly.

Parts of me have already let go.
Other parts are still holding on
like they didn’t get the message.

---

Time moves differently in this space.

Too fast when I want to hold onto something.
Too slow when I’m trying to move past it.

I find myself questioning things I thought I had already answered.
Revisiting thoughts I was sure I had outgrown.
Feeling emotions that don’t match the version of me I thought I was becoming.

And maybe that’s the point.

Maybe becoming isn’t a straight line.
Maybe it’s a loop.
A spiral.
A constant returning, but never to the exact same place.

---

There are moments—small, quiet ones—
where I catch a glimpse of who I might be.

Not clearly.
Not fully formed.

But enough to recognize that something is changing.

The way I think.
The way I respond.
The way certain things don’t hurt the same anymore…
and others suddenly do.

It’s subtle.
Almost easy to miss.

Like watching light shift across a room
without realizing how much time has passed.

---

I used to think I needed to figure it all out.

To define it.
Name it.
Understand exactly where I was going.

But this space doesn’t work like that.

The more I try to hold it still,
the more it slips through me.

---

So I’m learning—slowly—
to exist here without forcing it to become something else.

To let the uncertainty be what it is.
To let the unfinished parts remain unfinished
without rushing them into something that feels complete.

---

Maybe this isn’t a place I’m stuck in.

Maybe this is a place I’m passing through.

A threshold that doesn’t announce itself as one.
A quiet transformation that only makes sense in hindsight.

---

I am not who I was.

I am not yet who I’m becoming.

But I am here.

And for now…
that has to be enough.