The In Between

When Who You Were Is Gone, Who You're Becoming Isn't Here Yet, and the Life You Imagined Is Falling Apart.

The Place Nobody Really Prepares You For

There's a place in life that I don't think we talk about nearly enough.

The in between.

That fucking space between who you used to be and who you're becoming.

The place where you've shed so many versions of yourself that you can no longer return to the life you once knew, but you haven't quite stepped into the life you're building, either.

You're not who you were.

You're not yet who you're becoming.

And sometimes?

You have absolutely no fucking idea who you are in the middle of it all.

I've found myself at this crossroads many times throughout my life. That uncomfortable space where we shed an old version of ourselves while preparing for a rebirth we cannot yet fully imagine.

Many years ago, I received training in supporting people as they prepared for the transition out of this physical life—what we call death, and what some spiritual traditions understand as another transition of the soul.

During that training, I was introduced to the Tibetan Book of the Dead, traditionally known as the Bardo Thödol, or Liberation Through Hearing in the Intermediate State.

In Tibetan Buddhist teachings, bardo refers to an intermediate state—a space between two conditions of existence.

And while these teachings are traditionally associated with death and rebirth, the concept of an in-between state has stayed with me as a powerful way of understanding the transitions we experience while we're still very much alive.

And so, people love talking about transformation.

Shit, we see it all over social media. Scroll through any platform, and you'll see people celebrating transformation like it's some fucking prize they've won.

But how often do they talk about what it actually took to get there?

The moments nobody witnessed. The uncertainty. The painful decisions. The parts of themselves they had to confront and the things they had to let go of before they ever reached the other side.

Growth. Healing. Reinvention. Becoming.

They celebrate the breakthroughs, the courageous decisions, the new beginnings, and the beautiful life waiting on the other side.

But what about the space between?

The moments spent not knowing what the fuck comes next.

The moments that demanded far more courage than the beautiful outcome they eventually posted for everyone to see.

What about the fucking grief?

The shock and confusion?

The deepest heartbreaks you never thought you'd ever survive?

The fucking gut-wrenching silence?

The loneliness?

The uncertainty so overwhelming that even the smallest decisions can feel impossible?

It's as if you're fucking frozen in time while the rest of the world keeps moving.

Sometimes you feel so disconnected from everything familiar that it's almost as if you don't even exist on this planet.

I've described it before as feeling like a fucking alien.

You're here. You're functioning. Life is continuing around you.

But internally? You barely recognize the world you're standing in.

What about the days when you're doing everything you know to do, and you still feel like your entire fucking world has been turned upside down?

What happens when you're grieving a life that hasn't completely ended while trying to build a future that hasn't even begun?

And what happens when several of those transitions arrive at the exact same fucking time?

And when life keeps throwing its twists and turns at you, add some significant health complications, a devastating breakup, the beginning of an empty nest, and building a new business into the mix?

HOLY FUCKING SHIT.

Some might call that a recipe for disaster.

And some days, it certainly fucking feels like one.

But I also recognize the possibility for profound transformation and growth within all of it.

That doesn't make the experience any less painful. And it certainly doesn't mean I have to rush through it to get to the other side.

When the Person You Thought Was Your Future Becomes Part of Your Past

Now let's talk about something that can make the in between especially devastating.

Relationships.

More specifically, the person you genuinely believed you'd be doing life with.

Your person.

Or at least, the person you believed was your person.

The one you imagined growing old beside, creating a future together that you both deserved.

The one who made so many promises about the life you'd build.

The one you held on to hope for, even while sitting beside them in the fucking flames of hell during their darkest moments.

Because somewhere in all that love, loyalty, and hope, you believed that when your own darkest moments arrived, they'd be sitting right there beside you, too.

The one you envisioned sharing your dreams, your adventures, your ordinary Tuesday evenings, your victories, your losses, and all the unpredictable shit life throws at you. The good, the bad, the ugly.

Maybe you talked about the future you both envisioned and began making plans for the life you promised to build together.

Maybe they encouraged your dreams, and you encouraged theirs, too.

Perhaps you saw something in them they weren't yet willing or able to recognize in themselves.

Their potential.

Their greatness.

The person you genuinely believed they could become.

Maybe they even helped you imagine a future you hadn't quite allowed yourself to believe was possible.

And then?

Reality fucking stepped in.

You began realizing that the person standing beside you wasn't necessarily willing, ready, or interested in building the future they had promised to share with you.

Perhaps they wanted the relationship, but not the growth it required.

Perhaps they loved the idea of the future but weren't willing to participate in creating it.

Perhaps they genuinely believed their promises when they made them, only to discover they weren't ready or willing to follow through.

Or perhaps, let's be fucking real, they were making choices that repeatedly contradicted those promises.

Because while we cannot control every circumstance life throws at us, we are still responsible for the choices we make and how those choices affect the people we claim to love.

And perhaps they decided the relationship was simply "too much work."

Umm, no fucking shit.

Relationships require work. Growth requires work.

Funny how some people will dedicate countless hours to building the body they want, yet somehow believe building a healthy relationship should require little to no effort.

Or maybe they repeatedly led you to believe you were building something together while their actions were telling an entirely different story.

And perhaps you were so caught up in the love, the hope, and the future you believed in that you couldn't fully recognize what was happening right in front of your fucking face.

Ouch. That one stings.

Because now you're not only grieving what you lost. You're also confronting what you may have been unwilling or unable to see while you were still holding on.

And suddenly, you're not just questioning the relationship.

You're grieving an entire future you thought already had another person in it.

SHOCKING.

That's the word.

Not simply disappointing.

Not merely sad.

Fucking shocking.

Because sometimes the greatest heartbreak isn't discovering that someone doesn't love you.

It's discovering that love, even when it's real, doesn't necessarily mean two people are capable of building a life together.

And sometimes, you don't even know whether the love was what you believed it was anymore.

Maybe they were never truly in love with you to begin with.

Maybe the entire fucking relationship wasn't what you thought it was.

But here's the thing.

We're not fucking mind readers.

We shouldn't have to guess what our partner genuinely feels, wants, or intends.

It's their responsibility to communicate honestly and transparently, just as it's ours.

And when their words and actions repeatedly contradict each other, you're left trying to make sense of a reality you thought you understood.

That uncertainty becomes another loss to grieve, and that may be the biggest loss of all.

You begin questioning the conversations, the promises, the experiences, the intimacy, and the future you thought you were creating together.

And perhaps the most devastating realization?

The person you thought would help you navigate one of the greatest transitions of your life has become one of the reasons that transition hurts so fucking much.

The Grief of Becoming

Here's something I want both men and women to understand.

You can know that a relationship, an identity, a career, a home, or an entire way of living no longer belongs in your future and still grieve the absolute fuck out of losing it.

You can recognize that something isn't healthy for you and still miss it.

You can understand why a relationship cannot continue as it was and still desperately wish the circumstances were different.

And you're allowed to be fucking pissed, too!

We don't talk nearly enough about that part of grief.

The anger. The rage. The absolute disbelief that this is the reality you're now facing.

It's not always pretty, and it doesn't have to be.

Sometimes that anger comes in waves, just like the sadness.

Let yourself acknowledge it. Feel it. Give it space without allowing it to dictate your actions.

You don't have to suppress it, justify it, or rush to make it disappear.

Just know that you can be excited about your future and absolutely fucking terrified of it in the very same breath.

Grief and growth are not mutually exclusive.

Neither are courage and fear.

Neither are acceptance and heartbreak.

And the in between requires you to learn how to hold those seemingly contradictory experiences without demanding that one disappear before you acknowledge the other.

But many people don't want to do that.

They want out.

Out of the uncertainty and the unknown.

Out of the loneliness and the seemingly darkest place they find themselves sitting in.

Out of the uncomfortable silence.

Out of the grief and the rage.

So they rush toward something.

Another relationship.

Another distraction.

Another identity.

Another person to make them feel wanted.

Another project to keep them occupied.

They keep themselves so fucking busy that they never give themselves the space to actually feel, process, and move through what they're experiencing.

And sometimes, they do the opposite.

They freeze.

They shut down.

They numb out.

They turn to substances, their phones, porn, or even another person to fill the void rather than face what they're feeling.

Because sometimes, sitting alone with yourself and confronting what's happening inside you feels far more terrifying than finding another way to escape it.

Anything that allows them to avoid sitting with the reality that the life they knew is changing, and they don't yet know what comes next.

But gentlemen and ladies, here's what I want you to consider.

What if the in between isn't something you're supposed to escape?

What if it's a place you're meant to consciously experience, with curiosity, compassion, and a willingness to examine yourself objectively?

Not because suffering is some noble fucking achievement.

Not because you need to punish yourself by sitting in pain.

But because pain is part of being human, and constantly fighting, avoiding, or numbing it can create even more suffering.

There are parts of yourself you may never truly meet if you keep running every time life becomes unfamiliar and un-fucking-comfortable.

And let's be fucking real.

You're a grown-ass adult.

NO ONE CAN DO YOUR INNER WORK FOR YOU.

- AND -

NO ONE IS COMING TO SAVE YOU!!!

I'm Not Writing This From the Other Side

I'm Catherine Foytik.

And I've been through hell and back more times than I care to fucking recall.

There have been many chapters of my life when I denied, avoided, distracted myself, or numbed the pain of being in between.

Times when I wanted to skip the grief and get straight to the next chapter.

Times when I knew something was ending but wasn't ready to accept what that meant or even let it go, despite the fact that it was technically already gone!

And times when I was so accustomed to surviving that I didn't fully recognize how much of myself I was leaving behind.

But today?

For the first time in my life, I am consciously choosing to show up for this part of my journey at 100%.

Not just the strong parts.

Not just the wise parts.

Not just the parts that know how to help other people navigate their darkest moments.

I'm showing up for the part of me that is fucking devastated.

A grief unlike anything I've experienced before.

Or perhaps it's not just the grief of what I'm losing now.

Perhaps it's the accumulation of every loss, every heartbreak, and every grief I spent years suppressing, avoiding, or convincing myself I'd already moved through.

And now?

It's all hitting me at once. Like a fucking avalanche.

The part of me that is grieving the loss of someone I sincerely believed I'd be doing life with until one of us took our final breath.

The part of me that sincerely believed him when he said he wanted to build a life with me.

The part that's still trying to comprehend how a future we talked about, imagined, and planned together could become something I now have to grieve instead of experience.

And that's not the only transition happening.

I'm entering the beginning stages of becoming an empty nester.

An identity I've carried since my teenage years and throughout my adult life is now changing.

I'm also considering moving away from my friends, my family, my familiar surroundings, and the support system I've known to pursue a dream I've imagined for most of my life.

A dream that excites the absolute fuck out of me.

And terrifies me just as much.

Because imagining a different life and actually preparing to live one are two very different experiences.

SHOCKING.

There it is again.

That word.

Because sometimes you can spend years dreaming about freedom, expansion, and possibility, only to discover that when the opportunity to pursue them finally arrives, you have to grieve everything you may be leaving behind.

And as if all of that weren't enough, my body is navigating significant health complications yet again, after having just overcome some major health challenges only a few months ago.

My physical capacity isn't what I wish it were.

The stress is real.

The exhaustion is real.

The uncertainty is real.

The fucking heartbreak and devastation feel almost unbearable at times.

And all of this is happening when I genuinely believed I was finally turning a corner with my health.

For once, I thought I was breaking free from years of medical challenges and finally finding my way toward recovery.

Instead, I'm navigating another wave of physical complications while trying to process some of the most profound emotional losses and life transitions I've ever experienced.

I don't have the luxury of pretending that emotional transitions happen separately from the body carrying us through them.

So I'm learning to pause.

To listen.

To honor what I'm feeling without allowing every feeling to dictate my next decision.

To move with intention rather than urgency.

To give myself the compassion I have spent decades encouraging other people to give themselves.

And some days?

That is really fucking hard.

The Strength It Takes to Stay Present

I want to challenge the way we define strength.

Because sometimes strength looks like making a bold decision.

Walking away.

Moving across the country.

Starting over.

Ending something that no longer aligns with who you're becoming.

But sometimes?

Strength looks like not making a decision today.

It looks like allowing yourself to cry without immediately trying to explain the tears away.

It looks like acknowledging that you're heartbroken without convincing yourself you're weak or creating some story to make yourself feel better.

It looks like accepting that you don't know what the fuck comes next or who or what will be there alongside you.

All you know is what you're experiencing in this very moment.

The discomfort.

The heaviness in your chest.

The deep heartache of feeling like something is missing that was never supposed to be gone.

And sometimes, strength looks like listening when your body tells you it cannot keep moving at the pace your mind demands.

It means allowing yourself to rest, even when those familiar voices are telling you to just push through it.

And it looks like refusing to use another person or thing to anesthetize the grief of losing someone else.

Staying present with yourself when everything inside you wants to escape is its own kind of courage.

And in my eyes?

It's a fucking phenomenon.

That doesn't mean sitting alone in overwhelming distress or refusing support.

It means learning when to pause, when to reach for someone safe, when to rest, and when you're ready to take the next intentional step.

Maybe that next step comes in a few minutes, a few hours, a few days, a few weeks, a few months, or even a few years.

There is no prize for suffering through this alone.

There is no prize for moving through it quickly.

And there is no deadline for becoming.

Because becoming is never fucking finished.

What If This Is the Work?

I have spent much of my professional life helping people who feel lost, confused, terrified, overwhelmed, and disconnected from themselves.

I know how to help people recognize their patterns.

I know how to guide them toward deeper self-awareness.

I know how to sit with people in places they never imagined they'd find themselves.

I know how to hold space for people, allowing them to feel seen, heard, and validated in ways they may never have experienced before.

I know how to offer unconditional compassion and simply be present with them.

Sometimes that means sitting in silence while they cry.

And cry.

And fucking sob.

Without rushing them, interrupting them, or trying to make their pain disappear.

I let them feel what they need to feel.

This is the work, the mission, and the purpose I believe I was born to fulfill.

And I'm really fucking good at what I do.

But I'm not writing this because I believe I've mastered the human experience.

I'm writing it because I practice what I preach, including when practicing it is painful as fuck.

Right now, I'm living the very things I teach.

I'm learning to remain present while grieving.

To love myself without requiring someone else to validate my worth.

To honor the past without trying to resurrect it.

To respect the decisions my partner has made.

To allow him the freedom to make his own choices, even when those choices are breaking my fucking heart.

Because loving someone doesn't give me the right to choose their path for them. And accepting their choices doesn't mean I have to pretend those choices don't hurt.

To speak up when family or friends have good intentions but don't recognize that their advice may be doing more harm than good.

To recognize when their well-meaning suggestions encourage the very patterns I've worked so fucking hard to heal.

"Keep yourself busy."

"Go have fun."

"Don't be alone."

"Surround yourself with people."

I understand the intentions behind those words.

But here's the thing.

Constantly distracting yourself from your pain isn't the same as processing it.

And sometimes, those suggestions are the exact opposite of what someone needs when they're consciously choosing to sit with their grief instead of running from it.

I know how to find a balance between allowing myself to grieve, being fucking pissed, working, resting, practicing self-care, and loving myself through this experience.

And I don't need someone who refuses to face their own shit telling me how I should be handling mine.

No fucking thank you.

Love you, but bye!

To consider a future without demanding that I know exactly what it will look like.

It's brave. It's fucking terrifying.

And it's the reality I'm consciously choosing to sit with today.

And to recognize that becoming someone new doesn't require me to abandon the person I am today.

The in between isn't always beautiful.

Sometimes it's lonely.

Sometimes it's disorienting.

Sometimes it's fucking devastating.

But maybe this chapter isn't asking us to have all the answers.

Maybe it's asking us to stop running from the questions.

To recognize what we've outgrown.

To honestly examine whether we're leaving something behind because we've genuinely outgrown it, or because we're avoiding the discomfort and challenges that come with growth.

To grieve what we're leaving behind.

To acknowledge what we wanted but cannot carry forward in its present form.

And to make room for a future we haven't fully imagined yet.

Because if we cannot allow ourselves to experience the fear, the confusion, the grief, and the shock of becoming...

What the fuck are we actually doing here?

Regulate. Integrate. Become.

Catherine Foytik

Founder, The Soma Alchemy Institute