The Space Between Who I’ve Been and Who I’m Becoming

A confession from the middle of metamorphosis.

Most people think transformation happens in clean stages —
the chrysalis closes, the wings emerge, the butterfly rises.

But the truth is far messier, far more human.

There’s a stretch between the moment the chrysalis dissolves
and the moment the wings lift into the air
that rarely gets talked about.

A space where you’re no longer who you were,
but not yet who you’re becoming.

If this is your first time reading my words, let me offer a grounding:
the chrysalis is the cocooned middle —
that season of dissolving and unlearning,
where the old shape melts into something unrecognizable.

And after that comes the drying of the wings —
a necessary pause where what has formed internally
learns to hold itself externally.

But there’s a moment between drying and flight —
a vulnerable, suspended moment —
that isn’t glamorous or obvious.
It’s quiet.
It’s delicate.
It’s where I’ve been living.

And for those of you journeying with me,
this is the part of the story I haven’t fully shared.

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Naming the In-Between

These past weeks — honestly, these past couple of years —
the in-between has lived in my body as a soft tension.
Not stress.
Not fear.
Just the quiet pull between what is and what will be.

It feels like standing in new wings that haven’t yet proven themselves
but already feel more like me than anything I’ve ever worn.

And what’s surprised me most
is the ease I’ve found in this liminal space.
The strange comfort of surrendering to something unnamed,
trusting that whatever emerges next
will be both me and for me.

I’ve slowed down.
I’ve become unrushed.
I’ve learned to sit with people and offer them the fullness of my presence
because I’m not measuring myself against the next moment.
The now has become enough.

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The Quiet Cost of Emergence

But every transformation has its price.

When I led an organization,
my name moved through rooms before I did.
Eyes looked for me, listened for me, expected things from me.

Stepping into this new season —
one shaped by coaching, reflection, and deeper presence —
meant stepping out of the spotlight I once occupied.

The quiet cost of this season
was losing the identity that once gave me visibility
and the benefits that visibility brought.

It meant no longer being the headline.
No longer being the one people checked for.
No longer being who I once was
so I could make space for who I’m becoming.

And yet…
the unexpected gift has been discovering how much more I can hear myself
when the world stops applauding.

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The Tender Work of Becoming

The part of me needing the most compassion
has been the part that misses knowing.

I used to future-cast easily —
anticipate what was coming.
Design the outcome.
Point to a finish line and start running.

But this season refuses to let me skip ahead.

Now, I’m learning to trust one moment at a time.
To honor the truth that I don’t know where this is going —
and I’m not meant to.

The not knowing is tender.
It asks for softness I didn’t know I had.
It asks me to stay in my wings
before I test them against the sky.

And in that tenderness,
I’ve been held —
by the people who truly see me,
by the serendipities that arrive without announcement,
by creation itself whispering, you’re right where you’re supposed to be.

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Finding New Ground Inside Myself

As I’ve settled into this in-between,
I’ve noticed something new forming within me.
A calm that isn’t manufactured.
A peace that isn’t earned.
An intuitive clarity that rises without effort.

It’s as if the more present I become,
the more vivid my inner world grows —
and the clearer I can feel the energy, the intuition,
the truth of what wants to emerge.

These moments feel like glimpses of new wings.
Not the flight itself,
but evidence of what those wings will one day carry.

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What I Want You to Know

If you’re new here,
this is where you’re meeting me —
mid-transition,
mid-learning,
mid-emergence.

If you’ve been here,
you may recognize the rhythm —
the dissolving,
the drying,
and now this honest, suspended pause before flight.

I’m not writing from hindsight.
I’m writing from the middle.
From inside the wings that haven’t yet lifted
but are no longer drying either.

And if there’s one truth I’m willing to say out loud,
even though it scares me a little,
it’s this:

I don’t know exactly who I’m becoming,
but I’m grateful that I am.
And you’re watching that Becoming unfold in real time.

I’ve let go of who I was on purpose
so I could discover who I am on purpose.

And as I discover,
the next part of the journey is beginning to call —
a season not of dissolving,
not of drying,
but of trusting what has grown.

Soon enough,
it will be time for something new:

Releasing to the wind
and learning to fly.