In between days

Neither here, nor there.

Photo by Suzanne D. Williams on Unsplash

“Liminal spaces are the uncertain transitions between where you've been and where you're going physically, emotionally, or metaphorically.”

The other day, I was venting to Jason about feeling frustrated that we’re not moving faster. It’s been 18 months since we started dreaming about living in France, and I’m growing impatient. It doesn’t help that I turn 56 in a few weeks. Birthdays always make me a little nuts and bring up unrealistic expectations and big feelings. “You're no spring chicken! Time is running out!” I think, even though I still feel 30.

I must keep reminding myself that our approach is intentional and that we decided to take baby steps to get where we wanted to go rather than plunge headfirst into a new life in France. Many transformational experts recommend the “bite-sized” approach, and it works. Plus, it’s within our comfort zone and mitigates some risks. But I still wonder: are we being too cautious and letting fear hold us back? Would it be better to rip off the band-aid?

Right now, we’re in limbo.

“This is something Joanne Lipman writes about in her book,” Jason said as he pulled out “Next!” and started reading to me. (He recently attended a retreat at the Modern Elder Academy, led by Joanne and Gwendolyn Bounds, and got a lot out of it.). The “liminal period” is what London Business School professor Herminia Ibarra calls the time when you’re “existing betwixt and between a past that is clearly gone and a future that is still uncertain.”

This is precisely how I feel, and it’s nice to have it validated by researchers and other brainy people.

Substack is filled with people who have seemingly packed up everything overnight and moved abroad. How do they do it? Leaving one country for another is not only logistically complicated, but it’s emotionally complicated as well. You’re not just leaving a house or a neighborhood, you’re leaving your friends and family, your routine, your language, and your sense of belonging.

In mid-life, this uprooting feels especially daunting, but for me, it’s necessary. I can’t not do this. I can’t not at least try to live out a long-held dream.

I’ve never been good with uncertainty; it exacerbates my already anxious tendencies. I want things to be clear-cut, black and white. I have no patience for gray areas. This floating in between is uncomfortable and makes me irritable.

And yet I know that discomfort is often a precursor to growth. Jenna Park of Everything is Liminal writes beautifully about this, especially in the context of midlife, another kind of liminal space.

We are neither young nor old, just hanging out in the messy middle.

I’ve had to change direction or create something out of nothing many times in my professional life. In my 20s, I left a failing dot-com and went out on my own for four years as a freelance writer.

In my late 30s, I was let go from an incredibly toxic workplace right before the 2008 housing crisis and a year before my mother died. The timing couldn’t have been worse. I was single and had no savings, so I had to cobble together various consulting jobs and eventually started my own communications company. Failure was not an option, so I took whatever projects came my way and eventually got hired full-time by one of my clients.

In my 40s, after trying to get a full-time job and facing ageism, I once again started a business and ran it for 13 years. And now I’m onto yet another new venture, as well as freelance writing.

Photo by Do Nhu on Unsplash

Although I’m comfortable with professional change, personal, cultural, and geographical change is another matter. This is uncharted territory, and I have to be vigilant about not letting anxiety or self-doubt get the better of me.

I have to keep reminding myself of the why, a why that started long before the current fuckery administration, back in 2009, when my mother died at 68. Or maybe it was before that, when she got sick in 1995 and lived with the specter of death around every corner for 13 years. I became acutely aware of her mortality and my own. The why became stronger and more persistent during the pandemic, and fully bloomed after our elderly pets passed away, and nothing was holding us back.

The “Why France”? is the easy part for me. When I’m there, my body relaxes and my brain chills the fuck out. I appreciate the politesse, style, and attention to small details that make life beautiful.

Then, there are the bigger social and cultural implications: Kids going to school without fear of gun violence. A healthcare system that actually functions, not just for the rich, but for everyone. A government that offers a safety net. A culture that treasures art, literature, family, quality of life, and l’art de vivre. Of course, it’s far from perfect — I’m not naive enough to believe that life there will be easy or that I’ll magically become “French Sacha.”

And yet I know someday, not too far off, France won’t just be where I feel at peace and most like myself. It will be home.

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