Liminal Space

When waiting becomes too uncomfortable.

Recently, my dad’s voice has started interrupting the conversations I have with myself. Between dissociated commutes and liminal-space train transfers, I hear him say, “Hazel, you don’t want to learn the hard way.” But in truth, I’ve only ever learned the hard way. Even when the lesson is clear, it doesn’t always prompt change. While I cherish his wisdom, I’m in a season that requires my mother’s warm embrace. The older I get, the more I realize the impact of letting my forehead rest on her shoulder—eyes heavy, spirit low. A conversation that doesn’t require any words at all.

I go back and forth trying to decide who I take after more. There is no right answer. What I do know is that I understand them more than I ever have, and I feel more understood by them than I ever have. At 27, I ask myself: Is this full frontal lobe development? A few years late, maybe, but I think I’m finally here. I told my therapist today that I’ve had several breakdowns in the last few weeks, then retracted my self-pity by reframing them as breakthroughs instead. I wouldn’t say I’m in an adverse season—in fact, I’d say the opposite. I’m in a season I’d define as the precipice of change.

I’m quickly realizing I overstayed my welcome in this liminal space. To some degree, I’ve normalized the architecture to the point where I’ve made a home out of it. But the entire point of a liminal space is to transition—and when you don’t, it just becomes eerie. There’s anticipation burnout, and you find yourself in this ambiguous period of waiting.

My mid-twenties have felt like a waiting game, each decision a calculated move in a slow-burning strategy I am still learning to define. There’s this underlying, persistent feeling that something big is about to happen. But after several years of calculating, I’ve come up with nothing. There is no strategy when you don’t play the game. My excitement has turned into anxiety because I don’t know what I’m waiting for anymore.

So, I’ve decided to start taking risks on myself. When you reach this point of crippling indecision, every step forward feels like it could lead to two steps back. But I’ve become far too uncomfortable with waiting, being scared, and holding myself back. I want to be okay making mistakes and learning the hard way — even if it means leaving this liminal space behind and stepping into the unknown.