The Liminal Space: When You're Nobody and Nothing Yet
There was a period where I didn’t know who I was anymore.
Not in the existential crisis way, though maybe that too. I mean it literally. The identities I used to hold — graphic designer, personal trainer, almost-counsellor, aspiring human design guide — they didn’t fit anymore. Some of them I burned down myself. Some of them just dissolved when my body said no more.
And I found myself in the space between. The place where the ashes had settled but the phoenix hadn’t risen yet. The place where “I don’t know” was the only honest answer I had.
It’s called the liminal space. The threshold. The in-between. And it was deeply uncomfortable.
The Speed Trap
I’m a Manifesting Generator in Human Design, which means my natural state is fast. My mind doesn’t go A to B to C to D — it goes A to Z in the most chaotic, non-linear way possible. I love that about myself. The speed, the multi-passionate chaos, the ability to juggle ten things at once and somehow land on my feet.
But the liminal space didn’t work like that. It didn’t reward speed. It didn’t care how fast I wanted to move. It just sat there, blank and still, and said: not yet.
And I hated it. I hated not knowing. I hated not having a plan. I hated the feeling of being lost when my entire nervous system was wired to fix, solve, move, do something.
But the liminal space didn’t let me do that. It stripped me down. It took away everything I thought I knew about myself and asked: okay, now what? Who are you when you’re not performing? Who are you when you’re not productive? Who are you when you’re just… here?
And for a long time, I didn’t have an answer. I just sat in the question.
What the Liminal Space Took From Me
Chronic illness brought me there. It tore through my life and took everything I’d built — my career, my independence, my sense of purpose, my belief that if I just worked hard enough, I’d be okay.
I lost my health. I lost my ability to work. I lost the version of myself that could show up for other people, that could be useful, that could prove her worth by being productive.
And when all of that was gone, I was left with… what?
Just me. Just this body that was in pain most days. Just this mind that spiraled and questioned everything. Just this scared, exhausted human who didn’t know what she was doing anymore.
The liminal space is where you go when life has stripped you bare. When the old identity is gone but the new one hasn’t formed yet. When you’re in the void with nothing to hold onto.
And it was terrifying. Because in this culture, we’re not taught how to be in the void. We’re taught to fix it, fill it, move past it as fast as possible. We’re taught that not knowing is a problem to solve, not a space to inhabit.
But the liminal space didn’t care what I was taught. It just sat there and waited.
What I Found There
Looking back now, here’s what I learned from sitting in that space:
Curiosity lived there. When I wasn’t rushing to rebuild, I could actually notice things. I could ask questions without needing immediate answers. I could explore without a destination. It was slow, and it was uncomfortable, but it was also kind of… interesting.
Grief lived there. The grief for who I was. The grief for the life I thought I’d have. The grief for all the versions of myself I had to let go of. And that grief deserved space. It deserved to be felt, not bypassed.
Stillness lived there. Not the peaceful, meditative kind. The heavy, uncomfortable, “I don’t know what to do with myself” kind. The kind that made me sit with my own struggles instead of running from them.
And somewhere underneath all of that, truth lived there. The kind of truth I couldn’t access when I was performing, when I was trying to be useful, when I was building an identity to feel safe. The truth of who I actually was when all the noise was gone.
I didn’t find all of that truth right away. I’m still uncovering it. But I could feel it down there, underneath the grief and the fear and the “I don’t know.” And that was enough to keep me there.
The Courage to Stay
David Whyte, the poet, talks about a different kind of courage. Not the courage to take action or take risks. The courage to sit in the uncomfortable and ask the questions that the space requires of you. 1
That was the courage I had to learn. The courage to not rush. The courage to not force. The courage to sit in the void and say I don’t know without immediately trying to fix it.
Because the liminal space isn’t a problem to solve. It’s a threshold to cross. And you can’t cross it by running. You cross it by being willing to stay in the discomfort long enough to let something new emerge.
I didn’t know what that “something new” was while I was in it. I couldn’t see the shape of what was coming. I just knew I had to stay.
And now, on the other side of it — or at least further along — I can see that the liminal space wasn’t where I got stuck. It was where I got rebuilt. Not by forcing, not by performing, not by trying to become someone new as fast as possible.
But by staying in the question long enough to let the answer find me.
If you’re in the liminal space right now — if you don’t know who you are or what you’re doing or where you’re going — I won’t tell you it’s easy. It’s not. But I will tell you this: you’re not lost. You’re in between. And that’s exactly where you need to be.
References
Whyte, D. (2015). Consolations: The Solace, Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of
Everyday Words. Many Rivers Press.
