There’s a strange stillness that follows upheaval. When the noise fades, when the pieces settle, when the chaos finally exhales — what’s left isn’t peace, not yet. It’s a hollow quiet that hums with both loss and possibility. That’s where I am now: somewhere between what was and what might be. I’m not who I used to be, but I don’t quite know who I’m becoming either. Healing, I’ve learned, isn’t a straight path or a grand revelation. It’s a slow, uneven conversation between grief and hope.

Some days, I wake up ready to rebuild — to plant something new in the ashes, to believe again in the tenderness of living. Other days, I can barely lift the weight of my own thoughts. I’m learning to stop judging myself for that. The world tells us to “move on,” to “stay positive,” but real healing asks for something quieter: patience, honesty, and the courage to sit inside the ache without numbing it. Acceptance isn’t giving up — it’s saying, This is where I am, and that’s okay.

I’m trying to find myself again, piece by piece, without rushing the process. I’m learning to listen to the parts of me I silenced just to survive. I’m remembering what it feels like to dream without fear, to rest without guilt, to exist without performing strength for others. I’m not chasing peace anymore — I’m learning to make room for it when it comes.

Maybe this in-between space is part of the becoming. Maybe it’s not a pause before the next chapter, but a chapter all its own — the one where I stop running, start breathing, and begin to trust that I’m still capable of growing toward the light. Even when I don’t know exactly where I’m headed.