Liminal Space, Collective Grief, and the Spiritual Gut Punch of 2025

Whew.

If you’re reading this and feel like you’re suspended somewhere between who you were and who you’re becoming, just know you’re not alone. I’ve been here too. In the quiet discomfort of not knowing. In the heavy awareness of what no longer fits. In the sacred mess of the middle.

And it’s not just personal. The world is unraveling. We are witnessing things we can’t unsee. The atrocities, the systems crumbling, the blatant disregard for human life—it’s all so loud right now. There is grief in the air and in our bodies. Yet somehow, we’re expected to carry on like it’s just another day. Target still opens at 8am. Work meetings still get scheduled. Kids still need dinner. Life keeps moving, even when your spirit is screaming that something is very, very wrong.

This is the dissonance so many of us are navigating. The ache of witnessing suffering while still living inside a system that doesn’t pause for collective grief or soul reckoning. We’re holding so much. So if it feels heavy, it’s because it is.

Liminal space is not a rebrand. It’s not a cute transformation arc for your next content cycle. It’s ego death. It’s standing in the hallway after the door has closed, before the next one opens. It’s being asked to slow down and look at everything you once believed and ask yourself, "Is this even mine? Did I choose this? Does it still align?"

But here’s the thing. Even in all this uncertainty, there’s a pulse beneath the chaos. A whisper that says: you cannot go back. You cannot unknow. You cannot keep performing normal when nothing about this moment is.

The pull to check out is real. But numbing isn’t the same as resting. Avoiding what’s happening in the world isn’t regulation. It’s self-abandonment dressed up as peace.

Real regulation is different. It’s learning how to feel your grief without letting it swallow you whole. It’s taking sacred pauses to breathe, to move, to cry. It’s letting your body complete the stress cycle so that you can come back to your power instead of collapsing under the weight of it all.

It looks like choosing one moment of stillness before you scroll. It looks like shaking your body after a hard conversation or going for a walk instead of doomscrolling. It looks like journaling what you’re holding so it doesn’t get stuck inside. It might even look like turning off the noise for a few hours so you can hear your own inner knowing again.

But regulation does not mean spiritual bypassing. It doesn’t mean ignoring genocide or pretending the world is fine. It means strengthening your capacity to stay awake, even when it hurts. Because the world needs more of us resourced and rooted in reality—not numbed out and pretending we’re fine.

So if you’re here in the messy middle, grieving the world and wondering what your role is in it, let this be your reminder that you don’t have to rush through it. This liminal space is not a mistake. It’s where clarity is born. It’s where we remember what actually matters. It’s where we get honest about the kind of life and the kind of world we want to build from here.

Let the ache sharpen your clarity. Let the discomfort grow your courage. Let this pause show you who you are when you’re no longer performing.

Take a breath. Then take another. You’re not broken. You’re just in the space between stories. And that is a powerful place to be.