Why we rush through the in-between seasons of our lives.
In my last letter, you met Mara, the companion who learned that sometimes the most helpful thing is to wait. Today, you'll see what that looks like as she sits with Danielle.
Almost every life transition has a part we rarely talk about. It's the space after something has ended, but before whatever comes next has revealed itself.
We tend to be terribly impatient with this part. We want the new plan, the new identity, the lesson, the five steps.
Danielle is recently divorced. The life she knew has ended, but the next one hasn't quite begun. There is grief in that, of course, but there is also something more difficult to name.
For years, Danielle knew who she was in relationship to the life she was living. Now many of the familiar markers are gone. The shape of her days has changed. The assumptions she carried about her future have changed. Even her sense of herself is shifting.
And naturally, she wants to know:
What now?
What I love about the way Mara companions her is what Mara doesn't do.
She doesn't rush Danielle toward a new identity. She doesn't help her make a five-year plan. She doesn't turn the ending of her marriage into an inspirational story about reinvention before Danielle has had time to discover what the experience actually means.
She stays with her in the place between.
That sounds simple. It isn't.
When someone we care about is uncertain, we often become uncomfortable too. We want to help, so we offer ideas. Advice. Possibilities. Solutions. Perhaps a book they should read or someone they should call.
Perhaps, God help us, a five-step plan.
And sometimes those things are useful. But sometimes our eagerness to help someone move forward quietly communicates something we never intended:
You shouldn't still be here.
I wonder what would happen if we became a little less afraid of the in-between. What if the space between what was and what will be isn't simply a gap to cross as quickly as possible? What if it is part of the transition itself, a place where something important is happening even though we cannot yet name it?
Sometimes "I don't know" doesn't mean we're stuck. It may simply mean:
Something is still becoming.
And perhaps companioning, whether we are companioning ourselves or someone we love, sometimes means resisting the urge to hurry that becoming. Just being willing to say:
We can be here for a while.
If Danielle's story feels familiar, you can meet Danielle
From the Self-Care Cafe
If Danielle's story felt familiar, you may be ready for your own place to rest and return to yourself. That is why we created the Self-Care Cafe, a quiet sanctuary for women in seasons of change, with reflective readings, guided meditations, inner wisdom journeys, and bite-sized "Yummy Wisdom Bites" you can enjoy at your own pace. You're warmly invited to explore the Self-Care Cafe sampler, and if it feels like home, claim complimentary membership.
Explore the Self-Care Cafe Sampler >
From the Foundations Program
Staying, rather than steering, is one of the first skills of companioning, and one of the hardest. In The Art of Companioning: Foundations program, we practice noticing the pull to fix, and learning what to offer instead.
Learn more about the Foundations Program
A Question to Carry
Have you lived through a season like Danielle's, when the old life was clearly over but the new one hadn't yet introduced itself? What was it like for you to live in that in-between place?
If you'd like, reply and tell me. I read every response.
With warmth,
Pami
New to Conscious Companions?
* In the next letter, you'll meet Elise, whose husband died suddenly three months ago, and see what Mara offers when grief feels too big to hold.
Responses