The Middle

I was just thinking about the growth I’ve had in the last year. 

I decided I wanted something and that alone was scary. It’s way easier to coast and not change - especially when nothing is forcing the decision. I was terrified to share my dreams with anyone because they felt so tenuous and fragile - like a fawn struggling to stand for the first time. I knew one off reaction would topple the whole thing. 

I’m obscenely grateful for the people who listened and encouraged me. 

But I don’t feel like I was prepared for this phase.

Not the beginning.
Not the breakthrough.
The middle.

The part where you’ve outgrown your old life… but your new one hasn’t fully arrived.

It’s a strange place to be. You don’t feel like who you were, and you have a strong idea of who you’re becoming but it’s still a little foggy. Things that used to fit—don’t. There’s no clear map for what to do next.

I’m no longer the person who lets criticism stop me. Still, my body remembers what it felt like to shrink and give in when what I wanted was inconvenient for someone else.

Some days, that voice still shows up:
trying is stupid
failure is coming
this won’t work

This is the part where doubt gets loud. What if this feeling—this uncertainty, this discomfort, this pause—isn’t a sign of being lost, but simply that something is changing?

We’re so used to measuring progress by visible results: a new job, a clear plan, a finished outcome. Real change rarely looks like that. It happens quietly—in the moment you realize something no longer fits, in the sentence you write that feels truer than the last, in the small decision to keep showing up when you have no idea where it’s leading.

You see the progress when you:

• question things you used to accept 

• imagine something different, even if it’s still fuzzy

• start showing up in small, new ways

I want out of this phase. It’s not comfortable. But perhaps the middle doesn’t need to be rushed or solved. It needs to be lived—and, for me, written down. Writing forces me to notice the small scene: a half-filled notebook, a coffee ring on the page, a single line. Those tiny things are evidence.

If you don’t know where to start, try this one-sentence prompt: 

What feels different in my life right now—even if I can’t fully explain it yet? 

Don’t aim for perfect. One sentence is enough. This part of your story matters too, even if no one else can see it yet.