The Space Between Who You Were and Who You’re Becoming

Lately, I’ve been noticing a theme in my treatment room: transition.

Not the small, everyday kind, but the transitions that divide life into a before and an after.

A life-changing diagnosis. Becoming a mother for the first time. Leaving a career that has been part of your identity for years and wondering what comes next. Moving through changes in your health. Or reaching the other side of a long period of illness and realizing that you finally feel more like yourself again—but maybe not quite like the person you were before.

I've found myself thinking about these conversations long after the treatment has ended.

These experiences may look very different, but they share something important.

They place us in the space between who we were and who we’re becoming.

I've also come to realize that these transitions aren't separate from our health. They can affect how we sleep, how we digest, where we hold tension, and how much energy we have available to meet the day. In Chinese medicine, our emotional and physical experiences aren't viewed as entirely separate from one another.

Perhaps that's one reason the space between deserves more attention than we give it.

The Space Between

We tend to want transitions to have clear beginnings and endings.

We receive the diagnosis, and we want the treatment plan. We leave the job, and we want to know our new purpose. We have a baby, and we expect ourselves to settle naturally into motherhood. We begin feeling better after months or years of illness, and we assume we should simply return to who we were before.

But life rarely works that neatly.

Sometimes the old version of ourselves no longer fits, while the new one hasn’t fully emerged.

There can be grief in that space. There can also be relief, fear, excitement, uncertainty, possibility, and joy—sometimes all at once.

Our instinct may be to move through this uncomfortable space as quickly as possible. To find the answer. Make the decision. Establish the new routine. Figure out who we are now.

But what if the space between isn’t something we need to hurry through?

What if it is a season of its own?

Autumn Lives in the Space Between

Chinese medicine views us as part of the natural world rather than separate from it. As the seasons change, our bodies and energy respond too. This is why classical Chinese medicine places so much emphasis on adjusting how we live in response to the rhythms around us.

Summer represents the height of yang—warmth, activity, expansion, connection, and outward movement. Winter represents the depth of yin—quiet, stillness, restoration, and turning inward.

Autumn lives between them.

Nature doesn't move directly from the fullness of summer into the stillness of winter. The days gradually shorten. The air cools. Plants begin drawing their energy inward. Leaves change color before eventually letting go.

Nature doesn't rush the space between.

Maybe we aren't meant to rush through ours either.

The Wisdom of Gathering Inward

More than two thousand years ago, the Huang di Nei Jing, one of the foundational texts of Chinese medicine, described autumn as a time to settle the mind and “gather and draw inward the spirit and qi”—shou lian shen qi (收斂神氣).

I love this image of gathering.

After the expansive energy of summer, autumn begins turning us inward. We aren't yet in the deep stillness of winter. We're in the movement toward it.

When our own lives are changing, we often look outward for what comes next.

What should I do? Who am I supposed to be now? What does my life look like from here?

But perhaps before moving forward, there is value in gathering ourselves.

Pausing can be a way of honoring ourselves so that we don't lose ourselves in the space between.

It gives us enough quiet to notice what is happening beneath the urgency to figure everything out.

Maybe we don't have to decide who we're becoming yet.

We simply need to be awake enough to notice the subtle pull of what we're moving toward.

What We Release—and What We Carry Forward

Autumn is associated with the Metal element and the Lungs and Large Intestine. Grief is one of the emotions associated with Metal in Chinese medicine.

But grief doesn't only belong to death.

We can grieve a body that has changed. A career or identity we've outgrown. Our independence while simultaneously loving the child who changed it. The years spent sick even as our health begins to return. We can grieve expectations and the life we thought we would have.

Sometimes grief and joy occupy the same space.

Feeling grief doesn't necessarily mean we're resisting change. Sometimes grief simply acknowledges that what came before mattered.

We often talk about autumn and the Metal element as a time of letting go, but I think there's more to it than that.

The Huang di Nei Jing describes autumn as part of “the way of nourishing gathering”—yang shou zhi dao (養收之道).

Autumn asks us not only to release, but also to discern.

What am I ready to release?

And:

What am I gathering to carry forward?

We don't have to discard the person we were simply because we're changing. There may be wisdom, strength, relationships, experiences, and parts of ourselves that belong in the next chapter too.

The pause gives us an opportunity to notice the difference.

What has completed its season?

And what is worth carrying with us?

The Space Between Breaths

The Lungs offer us a simple reminder of this rhythm with every breath.

We inhale. We receive.

We exhale. We release.

And sometimes, if we pay close attention, we can notice the quiet space before the next breath begins.

Perhaps transition has a similar rhythm.

There is what we receive from an experience. There is what we eventually release. And there is the space between—the quiet moment before something new begins.

We don't need to fill that space immediately.

When Healing Changes Who You Are

We often think about healing as getting back to ourselves.

We want our old energy back. Our old body. Our old routines. Our old sense of normal.

But from my experience, healing doesn't always work that way.

Sometimes what we've been through changes us.

A serious diagnosis can change the way we understand our bodies. Motherhood can change our priorities and identity. Illness can change our relationship with time, rest, and productivity. Leaving a long-held career can make us question how much of our identity was tied to what we did rather than who we were.

Even recovering from illness can bring an unexpected transition.

When you've spent months or years organizing your life around symptoms, appointments, limitations, or simply trying to get through the day, feeling better can be wonderful—and strangely unfamiliar.

Who are you when your life no longer has to revolve around being sick?

Maybe healing isn't always about getting back to who you were.

Maybe sometimes it's an introduction to who you're becoming.

What Might This Season Be Asking of You?

If you find yourself somewhere between what was and what comes next, you don't necessarily need to have an answer yet.

Perhaps this season is asking you to pause. To gather yourself. To notice what you're grieving without immediately trying to make it go away. To recognize what has completed its season—and what remains meaningful enough to carry forward.

You might ask yourself:

What am I grieving as this chapter changes?

What am I holding onto because it still matters—and what am I holding onto simply because it is familiar?

What am I ready to release?

What parts of myself do I want to gather and carry forward?

When I become quiet, can I feel even the slightest pull toward what comes next?

Acceptance doesn't mean resignation.

It doesn't mean deciding that what happened was fair, that we have to find a lesson in it, or that we wouldn't change it if we could. And it doesn't mean forcing ourselves to let go before we're ready.

Sometimes acceptance simply means recognizing where we are now and allowing ourselves to be there.

We don't always have to turn the difficult things that happen to us into growth. We don't have to immediately know what comes next.

Sometimes the work is simply staying awake to ourselves while we're changing.

Not who we used to be.

Not yet who we're becoming.

Just here, in the space between.

Perhaps the purpose of this space isn't to figure out who we're becoming at all.

Perhaps it's to pause long enough to gather ourselves—to hold onto what still belongs to us, release what has completed its season, and become quiet enough to recognize what is beginning to emerge.

We may not know where we're going yet.

But we can listen for the quiet pull.