The Fear of the ‘in between’

Your life as you knew it has ended.

Whether it’s because you moved out of home, crossed borders into unfamiliar lands, endured the rupture of divorce, quit a business or a job, relocated to a new city, or lost a circle of friends—life, as you once knew it, has dissolved into the past.

You find yourself lost, untethered, confused. The ground beneath you has disappeared, leaving you suspended in the swirling uncertainty of the unknown. You're not sure which way is up or which way is down. Your mind, like a restless sea, tosses and turns, drowning in overthinking. You throw ideas at the wall, hoping something will stick, but nothing seems to land. Not even the simplest things make sense anymore, like why the outfit you loved yesterday suddenly feels foreign today.

Who are you?

It’s as if meaning has evaporated from your life, your vision and purpose obscured by the haze of transition. How could this be? You’re older now, wiser—or so you thought. Just a few years ago, you had your life together, or at least it seemed that way. You were slaying (ish), and the world was your oyster.

Now? You’re celebrating small wins, like arranging your clothes in the morning, as if this is all you can manage.

Where did I go wrong?

This stage, this liminal space between the life that was and the life that is yet to be, is one of the scariest places you can exist. It is the void, the cocoon where the old dissolves but the new has not yet formed. Nothing feels certain. It’s a place where everything is true, and everything is false. Black and white thinking fades away, and you are left swimming in the gray, where every possibility is an option, and no option feels real.

How can you trust any external truths when you can’t even grasp who you are anymore?

I have been there. For nearly five years now, to be exact.

I remember the end of 2019, standing on the precipice of a new decade, thinking, "Well, 2019 sucked, but 2020 will be a fresh start." We all know what happened in 2020.

Since then, nothing has felt solid. Nothing has seemed entirely true or entirely false. The world as I knew it fell apart.

I went down a deep rabbit hole in 2020, diving into every conspiracy known to man, leaving me paralyzed by fear. Then came a breakup, followed by an ugly business separation that still hasn't resolved. I was robbed in the dead of night, losing all my camera gear—$20,000 worth. A stalker entered my life. I lost my home, my friends. I disappointed people I loved because I was frozen in panic. I moved across the world. I dealt with endless paperwork, legal battles, and an overlanding vehicle build that drained my time, money, and spirit. And for reasons I can’t even explain, I chose to ground myself in a part of Australia that feels utterly misaligned with my soul.

Add a deep loss of self, purpose, and vision to that list, and... well... life royally f*ed me**.

And somehow, against all odds, I’m starting to feel deeply thankful for it all.

The first stage of any great healing is denial. Then comes blame. Oh, how I blamed. I couldn’t believe all of this could happen to me. I mean, my life had always flowed relatively smoothly (aside from the stormy parts of my childhood). But I knew about radical responsibility. I knew the teachings of ancient wisdom—that we create our reality, whether consciously or not. Life is the dance between fate and free will. Sure, unjust things happen, but it’s how we choose to respond that defines our path.

I knew I could’ve handled things better. But the truth is, I was afraid to stop blaming. Radical responsibility feels heavy, especially when it means acknowledging the ways we contributed to our suffering. Sometimes, reconciliation comes with costs—thousands, or even millions, when pride and pain are involved.

But time, introspection, and space allowed me to see things differently. I began to understand the real-world consequences of my actions while also embracing my part in the healing journey.

The next stage after blame is often rage. Anger at life, at others, at ourselves. We go through cycles of destructive behaviors, running from the pain until we start to crave something else: resolution, peace, meaning. We reach for lessons, seeking to integrate them into our being.

This is where ancient wisdom shines. The sages and mystics speak of the void, the cocoon stage, as sacred. It is the fertile darkness, the space between worlds where the old must die for the new to be born. In the myths of old, the hero’s journey always leads through the underworld, the place of transformation, where identity dissolves and is re-forged in the fires of chaos.

You are not lost. You are in transition. You are not broken. You are being shaped.

In this in-between stage, everything is right and wrong, true and false, all at once. But it is precisely this ambiguity that makes space for rebirth. Just as the butterfly must first disintegrate into nothingness within the cocoon before emerging anew, so must we let go of who we thought we were to make room for who we are becoming.

The ending of your old life is not a mistake. It is an initiation into deeper wisdom, a wisdom that has been known for millennia: true growth comes not from clinging to the familiar but from surrendering to the unknown.

As you stand in this place of possibility, allow yourself to be curious. The pieces of your life that no longer fit are falling away, not to punish you, but to make space for the parts of yourself that are yet to bloom. Embrace this void, for it is in this darkness that the seeds of your future are being planted.

And remember—every ending is but a new beginning in disguise.