The Space Between

Sometimes I forget this part isn’t punishment. This feeling of being suspended, of not quite belonging to what I left and not yet belonging to what’s next. This trembling and buzzing beneath my skin.

But I remember now. This is the hang time in the middle. And it’s crucial. There’s a stretch in every true leap when my fingers aren’t wrapped around anything. Not the bar I let go of or the bar that’s coming. I’m just midair, midstory, midbecoming.

They make it sound clean, like it’s one swift leap to the next sure grip, but it isn’t. There’s a void between versions of my self. Its a dark, dazzling, disorienting expanse. And I’m in it.

I am not grounded, but I am free. I am not certain, but I am true. I am not held by a net, but I am held by something far older and wiser than safety. I am held by the Field.

And I see it now. Every trapeze I’ve swung from was an identity that had become too small. Even the beautiful ones. Even the ones that once saved me. They were never meant to carry me forever. They were only meant to take me far enough to meet the next version of me.

I used to think this was the scariest part. Now I know it’s the most sacred. Because real change happens in the air, in the silence and in the surrender. It happens in the split-second that stretches into eternity and says: Let go. Stay open. Trust the sky. You’re not falling. You’re flying.

If you’re here too, midair, bare-souled and buzzed, chilled to the bone and lit up simultaneously, just know that you’re exactly where the truth finds you. You’re about to catch the next bar. But first, you’ve got to remember your wings.