A Month at the Threshold: April's Liminal Lessons

Coffee in hand, I spent four weeks learning why rushing through doorways costs us wisdom

Photo by Luca Lorenzelli, licensed through Adobe Stock

It seems fitting that my exploration of liminality—of threshold spaces—would end exactly where it began: in a doorway, coffee in hand, suspended between definitions.

This morning, I stood against the doorway of my new home, my coffee mug warming my palms. My shoulder pressed against the wooden frame, its grain catching slightly on my cotton T-shirt. I felt the threshold catch against my sock—this thin strip of territory that belongs neither to one room nor another, yet somehow holds its own palpable magic.

The doorway remembers.

Its threshold has witnessed countless transitions before mine: people crossing over with moving boxes, with newborns, with grief, with celebration. Standing here, I'm just the latest in a long procession of humans pausing between definitions.

What I couldn't have known when I wrote my first post about standing in doorways is how deeply this simple observation would reshape my understanding of what occurs in these in-between spaces, not just during physical moves but in all the transitions that shape a life.

The Journey Through the In-Between

When April began, I was preparing to leave a house that had sheltered eleven months of post-divorce healing—a home that was itself a liminal space, "a bandage over a wound, a temporary shelter" never meant to be permanent.

I didn't realize I was about to embark on a journey not just between physical addresses but through different dimensions of liminality:

From literal doorways to the metaphorical thresholds we cross.
From letting go of possessions to releasing outdated versions of ourselves.
From the creative spark of displacement to the hidden abundance of emptiness.
From the fertile darkness of uncertainty to the freedom of intentional incompleteness.

Each exploration revealed something the previous one hadn't fully illuminated. Each threshold opened to another, more profound (at least to me) doorway.

What I Didn't Tell You Before

Behind those explorations were questions I was almost too afraid to ask:

• Will I ever feel truly at home again, or am I destined to remain forever in this unsettled state? (I know, a bit dramatic—but 3AM thoughts rarely come with proper perspective.)

• What happens if I let go of the objects, routines, and identities that have anchored me, even if they were imperfect? (Terrifying, yes, but also strangely exhilarating, like standing at the edge of a creative cliff)

• Who am I in these unmarked spaces where old definitions have dissolved and new ones haven't yet come into focus? (Turns out, I'm both more familiar and more surprising than I expected—rediscovering old parts of myself while meeting entirely new ones)

The irony isn't lost on me.

As a political psychologist, I've dedicated years to studying how people construct identity during transitions, analyzing how we navigate belonging and change within social systems. And through my yoga therapy practice, I've witnessed countless others move through similar thresholds, observing how transition manifests not just physically but emotionally, mentally, and spiritually.

Yet there's a world of difference between studying liminality and living within it.

Intellectually, I understand that identity is fluid, that becoming is constant, and that change is the only certainty. These frameworks and theories sit comfortably in my mind. But there's a profound vulnerability in standing in doorways, hovering between definitions, and being visibly, publicly unfinished.

Some nights I still wake at 3 AM, disoriented in an unfamiliar room, feeling the weight of recreating not just a living space but a sense of self. In those dark hours, liminality felt less like an interesting theoretical concept and more like existential vertigo.

It was easier to write about thresholds with almost an academic distance than to admit how lost I sometimes felt within them.

It's not just about physical transitions.

I see this resistance everywhere—in how quickly friends rush to fill silence in conversations, how uncomfortable people become when I answer "I don't know yet" to questions about my career path, how urgently self-help books promise to get us through grief or heartbreak rather than teaching us to dwell meaningfully within it.

I believe our culture might be missing rituals for the middle space of becoming.

We celebrate beginnings: new relationships, career launches, fitness journeys. We commemorate endings: achievements reached, challenges overcome, chapters closed.

But the messy middle, where the real transformation happens? That remains largely unacknowledged, unmarked, unvalued.

Perhaps because it's where we're most vulnerable. Most unformed. Most honest.

In threshold spaces, we can't hide behind polished identities or comfortable routines. We're stripped of the armor of certainty. There's no script to follow, no clear self to present, no established narrative to hide behind.

I've felt almost naked during periods of personal reinvention.

I feel vulnerable when asked, "What's next?" before I've figured it out myself. I also feel uncomfortable admitting, "I'm in the process of becoming," when others expect definitive answers. I am strangely exposed to being witnessed in the process of transformation rather than presenting a finished self.

It has been a personal growth opportunity to share with you my move.

To be vulnerable.

I'm slowly learning that this discomfort isn't something to overcome but something to embrace. The vulnerability of thresholds isn't weakness but the birthplace of an authentic strength that I’m not sure can be found anywhere else.

It’s not the brittle strength of certainty, but the resilient strength of becoming.

The Unexpected Gifts of Liminal Spaces

When I stopped fighting the in-between states of my life, I began to discover what these threshold spaces offer that no clearly defined identity can provide:

A unique vantage point

Standing in life's doorways, I can see perspectives impossible from within fixed identities.

From the threshold between who I was and who I am becoming, I see both the past and the future with unusual clarity. I recognize patterns, understand motivations, and glimpse possibilities that remain invisible to those firmly rooted in comfortable certainty.

Freedom from outdated definitions

Those ridiculous side tables I finally rid myself of weren't just furniture—they were physical anchors to a self-concept I'd outgrown.

In liminal spaces, we are temporarily liberated from the burdens of others' expectations and our own outdated definitions of self. We can finally ask: Which aspects of my identity continue to foster my growth, and which am I clinging to purely out of habit or fear?

Creative alchemy

Finding my blender atop my winter boots during packing mirrors what happens when different parts of ourselves—the analytical and the intuitive, the disciplined and the playful—are temporarily jumbled out of their assigned categories.

Psychological displacement creates ideal conditions for unexpected connections and innovative self-expression that our orderly, categorized selves would never permit.

The richness of emptiness

Empty rooms have taught me that the expansiveness of not knowing carries its own wisdom. When I pause from filling every moment with activity and every decision with certainty, I make space for deeper understanding to arise.

Some insights can only arrive in the unfilled spaces between defined identities.

Wisdom that only darkness holds

Learning to sit with the darkness—of doubt, grief, and uncertainty—reveals truths that remain hidden in constant illumination. By confronting what I'd rather avoid, I've discovered that my capacity for joy, creativity, and connection actually expands.

Some dimensions of our strength emerge only when we surrender the illusion of constant clarity.

The freedom of incompleteness

That stubbornly blank wall in my new living room reflects the parts of my life story I'm leaving unwritten for now. This intentional incompleteness isn't indecision—it's a powerful acknowledgment that I am still evolving.

Unfinished narratives invite ongoing authorship in ways that neatly concluded stories cannot.

These gifts aren't just poetic metaphors.

They're practical wisdom for navigating change in a world that constantly demands we rush to arrive at tidy definitions of ourselves.

And they're reminders that the space between one clearly defined identity and another isn't empty.

It's where our most authentic strength takes root.

The Art of Dwelling in Doorways

So, how do we learn to value these threshold spaces in a culture obsessed with arrivals?

I'm still figuring this out myself. But here are some practices I'm exploring:

1. Resisting the urge to immediately fill empty spaces—in my home, in conversations, in my calendar.

2. Allowing creative projects their necessary fallow periods instead of forcing productivity when insights need time to germinate.

3. Sitting with difficult emotions without immediately reaching for distraction or premature resolution.

4. Giving myself permission to answer "I don't know yet" without anxiety when asked about future plans.

5. Creating physical spaces in my home that remain intentionally unfinished, leaving room for evolution and discovery.

These aren't strategies for avoiding definition entirely—that would be its own kind of stagnation. Definition exists for a reason. Instead, they're ways of honoring the particular wisdom available only in thresholds.

I'm learning that the art of living liminally isn't about refusing to arrive—it's about recognizing that arrival itself is always temporary, that crossing one threshold inevitably leads to another.

The Truth About Living Between Definitions

Here's what a month of doorways has taught me:

Liminality isn't an interruption of life. It is life.

We are always in process, always between what was and what will be, always crossing thresholds from one state of being to another.

Stable, clearly defined periods are the illusion; change is the constant reality.

This isn't abstract philosophy—it's embodied truth. Our cells continuously replace themselves, our relationships evolve moment by moment, and our understanding shifts with each new experience.

Nothing about being human is ever truly fixed or finished.

And it has led to three reflective questions for me:

• What if we stopped viewing becoming as a problem and started seeing it as an important part of being alive?

• What if we embraced the unique perspective and wisdom of doorways, dwelling thoughtfully within their thresholds, instead of hastily rushing through?

• Instead of seeing our unfinished areas—both in our homes and inside ourselves—as bad things, what if we saw them as safe places full of potential and possibility?

I don't have perfect answers for you. I'm still standing in my own doorway, coffee in hand, watching morning light lance. Still learning the art of being unfinished without apology.

But I'm beginning to understand that these threshold spaces may actually be the most fertile ground of our lives.

Not because they lead somewhere better, but because they offer a wisdom available nowhere else.

The Promise in the Doorway

So as I finish unpacking boxes and begin creating new patterns in this home, I'm making myself a promise:

I will leave space for evolution.
I will value incompleteness as wisdom, not failure.
I will trust the perspective that only thresholds provide.
I will remember that the most powerful room in my house might not be a room at all.

This doesn't mean rejecting structure or glorifying chaos. It means finding the fertile middle ground where order and possibility dance together. Where things are defined enough to function but open enough to transform.

Where the story remains partly unwritten so that unexpected chapters can still unfold.

Maybe that's what courage looks like in a world obsessed with certainty—not the bold leap from one defined state to another, but the willingness to linger in the electric space between.

To stand in doorways.
To sit with questions.
To leave walls blank until the right art finds you, rather than hunting for something to fill empty space.

To be, like all living things, permanently in process.

I invite you into this exploration.

What came forward for you this April?
Where are you standing at a threshold right now?
What transition are you moving through?
What might be revealed if you pause here, in this in-between space, before rushing to whatever comes next?

I'm listening, coffee in hand, in my own beautiful, unfinished space.

Remember, I respond to every comment. So please, I invite you to share. 🩵

About Alex

Me, staring off into the distance, looking at a tree.

I’m equal parts old soul and curious wanderer, a farmer boy at heart, and a writer whenever I can corral my ADHD. Ultimately, I write for those who crave rest in a world that never pauses.

As a political psychologist, yoga therapist, and integrative coach—anchored by both research and lived experience—I delve into questions of identity, connection, and wholeness, which are the foundation of my Substack publication, Life as I See It.

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