There’s this weird limbo no one really warns you about. The space between the person you used to be and the person you want to become. You’re not where you were, but you’re also not where you want to be. You’re just… here.

Floating.

Unfinished.

Stuck in the transition.

And that space? It messes with you.

You try to move forward, but every step feels too small to matter. You look back, and suddenly, even the parts of your past you hated start to feel familiar, like maybe you should’ve just stayed there.

You try to convince yourself you’re making progress, but then you check your bank account, or you hear what your dad isn’t saying, or you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror at 2 AM and think, What the hell am I even doing?

I live in that space.

Every damn day.

I’m not the same guy I was a few years ago—the one who let people treat him like an afterthought, the one who never spoke up, the one who made himself small just so he didn’t disappoint anyone. I’ve outgrown him. But I’m also not the guy I want to be yet. The one who’s got his life together.

The one who doesn’t feel like a walking contradiction—restless but stuck, full of ideas but afraid to act on them, tired of this town but somehow still here.

I keep thinking, Maybe if I just do the right thing, make the right move, everything will click into place.

But life doesn’t work like that.

So what do you do in the meantime? How do you exist in the space between?

I don’t have a perfect answer. But here’s what I’ve learned.

The Urge to Run Won’t Save You

There are days I just want to leave. Pack a bag, grab my guitar, and just go. No plan. No goodbye. Just me and the road.

But here’s the thing about running—you can’t outrun yourself. You can change locations, change jobs, change the people around you, but if you haven’t figured out the part of you that feels lost, it’ll follow you.

I could leave Oceanvale tomorrow, and yeah, maybe I’d feel lighter for a while. But I know myself. Eventually, the same doubts, the same restlessness, the same questions would creep back in.

Running feels like a solution. But it’s just a distraction.

So instead of trying to escape, I’m forcing myself to sit with the discomfort. To ask myself why I feel like this. To stop pretending that change happens just because you want it to.

Sometimes, the hardest thing isn’t leaving. It’s staying long enough to figure yourself out.

Growth Feels Like Losing Parts of Yourself

No one tells you that changing means grieving. You don’t just wake up one day and suddenly become better. You lose things along the way. Pieces of yourself you thought would always be there.

I think about my old friends sometimes. The ones I used to sit on rooftops with, talking about how we’d leave this town and never look back.

They’re gone now. Some moved away. Some just drifted. Some… didn’t get the chance to grow up.

And then there’s my dad.

We used to be close. Used to work on cars together, used to talk about real things. Now? Every conversation feels like a test I’m failing.

He doesn’t say he’s disappointed, but I can hear it anyway. In the way he asks, “So… what’s next for you?” Like he’s waiting for me to finally have an answer.

Maybe that’s the hardest part of changing—not just letting go of old habits, but realizing that some people won’t understand the new version of you.

You have to be okay with that.

You have to accept that some bridges will burn. Some relationships will fade. Some people will only know the old you, and they’ll never understand the version you’re trying to become.

And that’s fine.

Not everyone is meant to come with you.

Progress Looks Different Than You Think

I used to think success meant big, obvious milestones—moving out, making good money, doing something that actually mattered. And because I haven’t hit those yet, I tell myself I’m stuck.

But maybe progress isn’t about giant leaps.

Maybe it’s about the nights I don’t let my thoughts ruin me. The days I actually start writing instead of just thinking about it.

The times I don’t let my dad’s silence make me feel small. The fact that I’m still here, still trying, still pushing forward even when it feels pointless.

That has to count for something.

Because here’s the truth—growth is invisible while it’s happening. You don’t wake up one day and suddenly feel different. But one day, you look back and realize you’re not the same person you were before.

That’s what I’m holding onto.

The belief that even if I can’t see it yet, I am moving forward.

Keep Moving, Even If It’s Messy

If I’ve learned anything, it’s this: Waiting to feel ready is just another way to procrastinate.

I’ve spent years telling myself I’ll start when I have more money, when I feel more confident, when I have everything figured out. But that day never comes.

You don’t wait until you’re ready.

You start while you’re still terrified.

You write even when the words don’t come out right.
You play the guitar even when the songs don’t feel finished.
You build the damn car, even if it takes you years.

You keep going.

Because the space between who you were and who you want to be isn’t a waiting room. It’s a construction site. Messy. Unfinished. Full of wrong turns and bad ideas and moments where you want to give up.

But as long as you’re building, you’re not lost.

So Where Does That Leave Me?

Honestly? Still in the in-between.

I don’t have a five-year plan. I don’t know if this website will ever make me enough money to leave. I don’t know if my dad will ever stop looking at me like I’m wasting my time.

But I do know this:

I’m not where I started.

I’m not the same scared kid who thought life just happened to you. I’m not the guy who waits around hoping things will change.

I’m in the process.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for now.

If you’re in the in-between too, just know you’re not alone.

Keep going.

—J