Notes from the Space In Between
Nothing has changed.
And yet everything is different.
Seven months ago, something broke. Not loudly at first, but thoroughly. A rupture that scattered certainty, identity, future, and meaning. What followed was not a clean separation, nor a dramatic ending, but a long, quiet descent — into confusion, longing, surrender, and the unfamiliar territory beneath hope.
This is not an essay about a reunion.
It is an essay about what happens when truth stops being something you look for, and becomes something you live.
The Dark Night Is Not Romantic
The dark night of the soul is often misunderstood. It is not poetic despair. It is not spiritual drama. It is not a badge of depth.
It is disorientation.
It is the moment when the stories you lived by stop working — about love, about yourself, about meaning — and nothing immediately replaces them. It is when effort fails, belief collapses, and even spiritual frameworks begin to feel hollow.
In that place, there is very little to do.
Only to stay.
What remains when there is nothing left to cling to is not insight, but exposure. Raw being. A life stripped of interpretation. It is uncomfortable precisely because it cannot be managed.
And yet — this is where something subtle begins to happen.
Not a change.
An allowing.
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Space in Between Worlds 