The Threshold Season
Naming the Space Between No Longer and Not Yet
There is a strange tenderness that comes with the end of a season. Not just the kind marked by calendars and temperature shifts, but the ones no one else can see. The internal seasons. The ones that quietly signal a turning. It doesn’t always make sense. It’s not quite sadness. Not grief in the traditional sense. Just an invisible tug beneath the surface, like your soul knows something is shifting, even if your mind hasn’t caught up.
You wake up and the air feels different. Lighter, maybe. Or sharper. There’s a stillness to it, a kind of quiet that feels both scary and sacred. Like the world is holding its breath.
This is the threshold. The space between what was and what’s not yet. The moment after letting go but before the new has arrived. Where you’re no longer who you were, but not quite who you’re becoming either. It’s the almost. The emotional hallway no one teaches you how to walk through. And it can feel disorienting.
Because we live in a culture obsessed with clarity. With resolutions. With labels and bullet points. We want to name what we’re doing. We want to know where we’re going. We want to arrive.
But transformation doesn’t work that way. Becoming isn’t linear. Sometimes it’s a spiral. Sometimes it’s a stall. Sometimes it’s the slow dissolve of an identity you didn’t even realize you’d outgrown.
This isn’t a glitch in your system. It is the system. Change rarely introduces itself with certainty. It begins as restlessness. As a sense of misalignment. As the urge to clean out a drawer or dye your hair or start over in some way you can’t fully explain.
You don’t always know what you’re growing into, only that something no longer fits. And that’s uncomfortable. Because when you’re standing in a threshold season, your old anchors don’t quite hold. The usual habits feel foreign. Even joy can feel oddly unfamiliar, like putting on clothes that aren’t yours anymore.
You notice yourself softening in places. Becoming more tender in others. You forget things more often. You cry more easily, but not always for sad reasons. You crave silence, but feel unsettled in it too.
It’s not glamorous. It’s not productive. It’s not meant to be. It’s meant to undo what was never fully yours to begin with.
So if you’re feeling a quiet unrest, if something in you feels suspended or unsure, you’re not falling behind. You’re in gestation. And gestation doesn’t look like progress. It’s the work happening underground. In the quiet. In the dark. In the places no one sees and few understand.
You might want to rush out of this season. Make a plan. Start fresh. Distract yourself with new goals or even self-improvement. But not all forward motion is progress. And not all stillness is stagnation. Sometimes what looks like a pause is actually a profound recalibration.
So let yourself linger here in the threshold. Let yourself be unfinished. Unclear. Unpolished. Let the quiet truths of your life rise up and meet you. Let what no longer serves you fall away without demanding a replacement.
Let yourself want more, even if you don’t know what more is yet. Let yourself grieve the seasons that didn’t last as long as you thought they would. You are not lost. You are not broken. You are not late.
You are transforming.
And evolution always begins in the liminal space. In the doorway between who you were and who you’re becoming. The place where you shed the armor that once protected you, so you can step into what’s next with more truth than ever before.
This is the threshold season.
Honor it.
Listen to it.
Let it do its work.
Because while what’s ahead may not be clear yet, you are already becoming the person who will meet it.
With you in this.
Love,
Zelana