The Liminal Space: Learning to Live in the In-Between

By Juliana Mott Fabio, LCSW

Lately, I’ve been having many conversations about what is often called the liminal space—that in-between period where something that once felt known, structured, or familiar has fallen away, and what comes next is not yet clear.

It’s the space after leaving a job, ending a relationship, moving to a new place, or realizing that the life you were living no longer fits. It’s the space where routines dissolve, identities shift, and the ground can feel unsteady beneath you.

This space can be incredibly uncomfortable. It can bring sadness, anxiety, and fear. There is often a sense of disorientation—of not knowing who you are in the same way you once did, or how to move forward. As a therapist, I see how unsettling this can be. As a human, I know it intimately.

We are not naturally wired to sit in uncertainty. The nervous system often seeks clarity, resolution, and control. So when we find ourselves in this in-between, it can feel like something has gone wrong.

But what if this space is not something to rush through or fix? What if it is something to be with?

In nature, some of the most rich and alive ecosystems exist in the in-between spaces. Mushrooms grow in the dark, beneath the surface, breaking down what once was so that something new can emerge. The edge where a forest meets a meadow—where light and shadow overlap—is often where the most diversity and life exist. It is not one thing or the other. It is both.

There is something about this metaphor that feels important.

Because the liminal space in our lives is much the same. It is where the old is no longer fully alive, and the new has not yet taken shape. It can feel like nothing is happening—but beneath the surface, there is quiet transformation.

And yet, it’s hard to stay present here. It’s hard to feel hopeful when things feel like they are falling apart. It’s hard to trust when there is no clear outcome in sight. But if you think back to a difficult time in your life, you may notice something: while you likely wouldn’t choose to go back, you can often recognize how that time shaped you. How it revealed something. How it opened doors or created opportunities you couldn’t have predicted.

Growth rarely feels good while it’s happening. It often feels like loss, confusion, or discomfort.

But what if, instead of only seeing this time as something to endure, we allowed ourselves to look for what might be emerging?

Not in a forced or overly positive way—but in a curious, gentle way. What small gems are here, even now? Who are the people showing up to support you? What parts of yourself are becoming more clear?

There is also something quietly empowering about this space. When what once defined you falls away, there is an opportunity—over time—to choose more intentionally. To rebuild in a way that feels more aligned with who you are now, rather than who you were.

You get to ask:

What actually matters to me?

What do I want to carry forward?

What am I ready to leave behind?

This process takes time. Often more time than we would like. There is no quick resolution, no immediate clarity. But there is also something deeply meaningful about allowing that time to unfold, rather than rushing back into something simply because it is familiar.

Because while staying in something that no longer fits may feel more certain, it often comes at the cost of growth.

The liminal space asks something different of us.

It asks for patience.

For trust.

For a willingness to not know.

And perhaps most importantly, it asks us to remain open—to the possibility that something new is forming, even if we cannot yet see it.

You are not lost.

You are in transition.

And even here, especially here, something is growing.