The ground rush is here
Navigating the in-between of endings + beginnings
My daughter came home a few weeks ago and said the end of the school year feels like a ground rush. Curious to hear more, I leaned in for the rest of the story. “My teacher said that when someone is skydiving, the ground feels far away. Then, all of a sudden, it’s very close. That’s how we might be feeling about the end of 5th grade, testing, transitions, and going to middle school. It’s a ground rush.”
I remember smiling and nodding my head, thinking of past seasons of life and how true that’s been. Ironically, it didn’t cross my mind that a ground rush might be heading my way a few weeks later.
A bit about my current reality — When I look down at my hands, they are no longer present in familiar spaces. One hand is in our current chapter of life that’s rapidly disappearing. Pages are turning that I did not give permission to turn. Sentences are falling off the page outside my awareness. I see the end of the chapter swiftly coming and my insides clench. I try to read as slow as I can, attempting to slow the brisk march to the end of the chapter.
Then I look to my other hand and it’s slowly edging itself closer to the next chapter. In fact, she even had the audacity to flip open the first few pages. There are stories and relationships already underway. Decisions are being made and dates are going on calendars. This hand feels curious and excited to read ahead. I wonder where the story is going?
We move from the Seattle area to Oregon in 43 days. In a weird turn of events, we get the keys to our new apartment tonight. To secure housing in this market, we had to pay for an extra month even though we won’t be there. *cue eye roll.* We’ll literally have one part of our bank account in Washington and another part in Oregon. Joy.
The ground rush is here, ready or not. It was far away and now it’s all feeling very close.
These in-between seasons are awkward. Maybe you find yourself in one of those too.
One chapter is closing. A new chapter lies ahead.
When the chapter ending is not your choice
We lose people we love, a job loss, a relationship shifts, our health breaks down. There’s real grief in a chapter ending without our permission. It feels like someone’s stolen the pen to your story and started writing a chapter that was never in your outline.
We honor the anger. The disappointment. The grief. Something happened and this part of your story is ending far before you’re ready.
When you see it coming
Even when we’re aware a chapter change is coming, its’ arrival stirs up complicated emotions. Someone we love is stepping into a new season of their life and it means the end of something for us. We end a job, a relationship is over, we need to move, a tough decision must be made, we say yes to an exciting opportunity. Whatever the circumstances, the grief and the joy are real.
We honor the complexity of emotions stirring within. May we give space for each of them to feel heard and believed. Transition work is sacred and holy.
When we’re considering a chapter change
Still others of us are hanging out in the middle of our current chapter, wondering if a chapter change is coming our way. We feel restless or uncertain. Do we want to take that step? Will we regret it? Are we leaning forward with trust and curiosity? Are we running from fear?
We honor seasons of deep discernment. Weighing options and possibilities. Learning to listen to our deep knowing. Curious about when we operate out of fear and scarcity. The dance of discernment chapters is real.
Living the in-between
So how do we handle these super awkward seasons?
For me, it’s always been about showing up and paying attention. Being honest about the grief and the joy. Making space to feel it all. Telling a few trusted people so they can bear witness. Their love helps me feel less alone. Processing the chapter that’s ending through stories, pictures, and memories. Caring for myself with gentle love because transitions are holy and sacred work.
When the ground rush moments come, setting aside distractions and stepping into quiet is immensely helpful. It’s how I slow down time. Being present in this moment is what gives me the space to articulate the conflicting emotions. The quiet delivers me into my body in a way my list-making brain can never figure out.
Because my physical body is only ever right now. She may carry fear and joy about the past and future, but she can only ever breathe in this moment right now. The overwhelm of ground rush comes from trying to manage both chapters at the same time. When I breathe deeply into my attempt to control it all, I remember all over again. Slowing down time and stepping into the moment in front of me is a holy way to journey these chaotic seasons. It’s how I feel each sentence in the chapter that’s closing. It’s how I step into a new detail for the next chapter. Sure, it’s happening all at the same time, but I can still sink into each moment as if it’s my whole world.
And honestly? Chapter endings are never as neat and clean as we might like. We’ve got a hand flipping through previous chapters while we’re making our way into a new one. We jump back and forth sometimes. Much grace. We’re human.
Let’s access the collective wisdom of this community. Leave a comment and tell us what’s helped you in seasons like this. What chapters did you close as you stepped into new ones? We’d love to learn with you.
Here’s to living our chapters with intention, curiosity, and love. You are living a ridiculously beautiful adventure of a story. Even if someone stole your pen for a hot second, you are still the co-author of this story.
Take that pen and have some fun, my dear friend.
You’re worth every sentence.
Still Here: A Poetry Memoir of Grief & Love
When faced with unexpected loss, pain and grief set up camp in our bodies and we don’t always know how to talk about what we’re experiencing, especially in the first year of loss. Still Here is a collection of poems for those trying to make sense of the fragility and terror of losing a loved one. We name the shock, wade into the everyday nuances of grief, and eventually take tentative steps into the land of the living again, only to discover love never dies. Somehow their love is still here, dancing with our every breath. Still Here is an honest reckoning with the pain and frustration of grief while journeying toward surprising healing.
Written by a poet and pastor who unexpectedly lost her youngest brother, she captures the ache of loss and the complexity of healing as her family travels the first year together. As she braves the unbearable with curiosity and trust, we’re invited to unravel the grief that awaits each of us, in the hope that love never dies.
They’re still here. So are we.
I accepted responsibility for my mom more seven years ago when she went blind. Most of our plans for retirement went on hold. The last two years she was in a nursing home waiting, longing for the end. Time accelerated near the end: the last four months, then the last four weeks followed by the last four days and then, her last four hours. She died March 26th. I loved my mom; I’m sad at her passing, but I woke up a week or two ago and realized that the great, suffocating weight I had been carrying (and couldn’t properly describe) was gone. I almost feel like I did in 2015 (except, of course, I’m seven years older). I wonder: where do we go from here?
In late 2020, I left my lawyer job to write a book. The past (almost) three years have been a rollercoaster as I learn about a world entirely unfamiliar to me. Along the way I've made a number of wonderful new friends. I'm three weeks from launch and actually feeling good knowing I've done everything within my own control to make it successful. Good advance reviews have helped!
When I find myself impatient, or stuck in that "in-between" stage, I concentrate on noticing the tiny changes nature provides. Spring in Minnesota gives me lots of opportunities.
Wishing you all the best as you turn your pages!