When the In-Between Becomes a Home

At twenty-six, the in-between felt like sweating in the basement of a family friend’s Boston home in late August. My belongings were scattered around me, smelling distinctly of plastic from being shoved in airtight bags. The cement floor was cool under my feet, and the noisy city was above me. I sat there crying, surrounded by the chaos of all my belongings. Boston became an in-between city—a place I landed without knowing how long I’d stay or where I’d go next.

But that wasn’t the only time I felt suspended between one life and another.

At twelve, the in-between felt like being too old for one group of friends, but too young for another on the neighborhood street.

At twenty-two, it felt like all my friends were in relationships while I was the perpetual third wheel. Never quite there.

At twenty-eight, the in-between felt like watching all my friends get married and have kids, knowing in my bones that wasn’t the life I wanted for myself.

At thirty-two, the in-between feels like being laid off and wondering what comes next.

My in-betweens have always felt like being the odd one out, like watching the world move through these arbitrary “next stages of life” and wondering why I don’t want them.

Somewhere along the way, the in-between has become my comfort zone.

The Myth of Arrival

I don’t know when these arbitrary “next stages of life” became so weighted in our society… Maybe it’s because I grew up in the South but was raised by Northern parents and learned early how it feels to stand between two worlds, never quite fitting either map.

I keep thinking about Boston and how I rode the T with my Charlie Card tucked in my wallet. How the map of colored lines made it look like you could get anywhere as long as you followed the right tracks.

Life sometimes feels like that—a train with predetermined stops labeled:

→ Degrees → Career → Relationships → Stability → Happiness

The problem with that train is that life rarely moves in straight lines. Yet we’re taught to believe that if we stay on the tracks, ticking off each stop in order, we’ll eventually arrive at the final station marked “Happiness.” And if we’re late or decide to get off the train altogether, we’re left feeling behind, or like we don’t quite belong.

For so long, I treated the in-betweens like stretches of track I just needed to pass through as quickly as possible. I kept thinking:

Once I land the right job, I’ll finally feel stable.
Once I move to that dream city, I’ll belong. I’ll be happy.

The truth is, there’s no real “arrival.” The only true arrival we’re guaranteed in life… is the end of it. So why are we so intent on speeding up the train?

What if the in-between isn’t something to escape but a place worth inhabiting?

A Life Spent in the In-Between

I used to believe the in-between meant I was failing to arrive. Now I see it’s the space where I meet myself most honestly.

The feelings of “not quite” start to soften. Not quite fitting in age-wise with friends. Not quite content with where you live. Not quite sure if the next dream will be the one that finally feels like home.

When you begin to notice your in-betweens, you stop rushing. You realize that the train stops only last a few seconds, but the stretch of track between them can last so much longer.

And there’s something sacred about that stretch. The in-betweens hold both longing and possibility. A quiet ache and a quiet hope. The transition becomes a beautiful place to be.

And sometimes, the view outside the window is more beautiful than any station you’re rushing to reach. Sometimes, you’re meant to linger between stops and notice the wildflowers growing along the tracks.

Every in-between phase—every shift between jobs, cities, identities—has taught me that there’s beauty in not knowing the next stop, and that the in-between isn’t a space to endure but a place where life expands.

And I’m beginning to see that in those uncertain stretches of track, some of life’s quietest gifts appear—the small glimmers of curiosity, reinvention, and unexpected beauty waiting to be noticed.

Maybe the real arrival isn’t reaching the next stop but learning to see the beauty that grows in the space of not knowing.

The Beauty of Not Knowing

Liminality comes with many gifts—if you’re willing to sit on the train track long enough to notice them.

Being in a liminal state creates room for curiosity, reinvention without pressure, and the chance to discover unexpected beauty. It’s allowed me to begin quieting the shoulds that once ruled my life—the same ones I wrote about not long ago.

The in-between has a way of forcing presence. When nothing is certain, everything becomes vivid.

But getting there—the place where you can actually appreciate liminality—hasn’t been automatic. It’s taken intentional inner work:

• Naming what’s true right now. Even if it’s messy. Journaling helps me put shape to the fog so the in-between doesn’t feel endless.

• Practicing self-compassion. Reminding myself that not knowing isn’t a failure, it is part of being alive.

• Asking gentler questions. Instead of demanding“What’s next?” I’ve learned to ask, “What do I need today?” or “What feels nourishing right now?”

• Letting go of the shoulds. I’m practicing noticing when the voice of obligation creeps in—telling me what my life “should” look like—and choosing curiosity instead. The in-between has become the space where I untangle what’s truly mine from what was inherited or expected.

• Holding both longing and possibility. I’ve learned it’s okay to feel the ache for what’s ahead and still love where I am.

These practices help me stay rooted even when my life feels suspended between what was and what might be. They turn the in-between into a place of gentle observation rather than anxious waiting.

And they’re slowly helping me realize that maybe the in-between isn’t just a temporary pause but a space I can learn to call home.

Learning to Make It Home

One of the ways I’m learning to make the in-between feel like home is by slowing down enough to savor the smallest moments.

And, like I shared in my ode to boring days, I’m realizing that it’s in the quiet moments—a home-brewed coffee, a gentle routine, music drifting through the house—that I feel most at home in the in-between.

These ordinary moments become anchors. They turn liminality from a stretch of train track into a place of belonging.

The in-between might be uncertain, but that doesn’t mean it can’t feel like home.

Life isn’t made up of predetermined stops. It’s made up of those endless stretches—the time in between.. It’s about finding beauty in ordinary days, celebrating small wins, and shifting your mindset from waiting to living.

Waiting for the next destination will only leave you in a perpetual state of suspension.

Being in the liminal space is a choice to root in the present.

Finding Home in the In-Between

I used to think life was about getting to the next station as quickly as possible. Now, I’m learning that the real magic is in the ride itself.

And maybe that’s the point: that the real arrival isn’t reaching the next stop but learning to see the beauty that grows in the space of not knowing. And perhaps happiness isn’t waiting for us at the end of the line but scattered all along the journey—in the stretches of track where we linger, grow, and find beauty in the in-between.

Maybe I was never meant to arrive somewhere else. Maybe I’m meant to keep growing right here.

These days, I’m curious about how others navigate this space, too. I’d love to know what your current in-between is. And how are you learning to make it feel like home?

Thanks for riding this stretch of track with me today.