Living in liminal spaces

and the pressure of possibility when everything calls your name

I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to live in the in-between. When everything feels possible, and nothing feels certain.

📍Cliffs of Moher, Ireland (March 10, 2017)

I’m floating somewhere between countries and careers, between my twenties and whatever comes after. Not stuck, but not settled either. Supported enough by my past self, who saved enough for today, by people who love me, by the belief that this season has meaning. Holding faith that there will be a purpose, even without a plan. Presence over performance. Freedom over familiarity. Exploration over convention.

Still, the pressure to choose a single, “right” path looms. Some days, it feels like I’m trying to live out every possibility at once — like a browser with too many tabs open.

One’s a half-read article on morning routines. Another’s a creativity contract I wrote but haven’t found the courage to sign. Tab three is a ChatGPT convo about where to move next — Vietnam? Philippines? Stay in Thailand? Fourth is a job listing I feel 30% excited by and 70% unqualified for. And fifth is a table of ideas for this letter you’re reading. I toggle between them like puzzle pieces for a life I’m trying to design, hoping one click will unlock clarity. Most of the time, I just skim, minimize the tab, open a fresh browser, and promise myself I’ll come back later. (I rarely do.)

Most mornings begin the same. I wake up. Attempt to meditate, breathing slowly, but end up scrolling through a cloud of thoughts instead of my phone. Tea warms my hands as I settle into the day. A worn book by the Indian philosopher Krishnamurti sits nearby, a compass I carry, always full of unanswered questions. I check in with myself, jotting down what I notice, feel, and think. Then I glance at last night’s to-do list, reshuffling it quietly.

At night, I lie on my too-firm mattress, geckos squirming across the ceiling, and think about all the versions of me I still want to become.

Writer. Facilitator. Thai massage healer. Creativity guide. Polyglot learning Thai and Dutch. Maybe Sanskrit. Live in a bustling international city. Live on a chill, cultured island. Bike across a country. Sail across a sea. Converse late into wee hours of the night. Wake with the sun. Live like a monk. Live like an social butterfly. Complete a half Ironman. Pursue permaculture. Write songs. Write a novel. Heal and make peace.

I want to do everything. And honestly? Sometimes it feels like too much. Like I’m a soda can that’s been shaken and is waiting to burst.

And it’s not just the pressure of possibility. It’s the pressure of opportunity cost too.

Choosing one path means saying no to a dozen others. Every decision feels heavier because it's not just about what I’m stepping toward. It's about what I’m leaving behind.

Sometimes, I’m scared I’ll never quite choose. That I’ll orbit the idea of becoming without ever fully landing. The "right" path feels like a myth most days.

But when I zoom out, I remember this: Life hasn’t been about finding one perfect open tab. It’s been about toggling between sparks of curiosity, knowing the best paths weren’t bookmarked at all. Each tab I leave open carries a little hope and a little heartbreak. A reminder that every click forward quietly closes another.

Even still, trusting what feels true in the moment has always carried me further than any master plan. Letting my heart take the helm, even when the waters are wide and uncertain.

That’s part of why I keep writing these letters. Not because I know this is it, but because it feels like something. It keeps me grounded in reflection. Present in the practice. A way of making myself visible — not perfectly, but honestly.

So if you’re also in the liminal space — wanting to be everything, afraid to get it wrong — here’s what I want to tell both of us: You don’t have to figure it all out. Not now. Not ever, really.

Follow the tug that stirs you most. Even if it’s quiet. Even if it’s small. For a day. A week. A season. That’s enough. And you can always begin again — right here, in the liminal.

With love and a little wind at your back,

🌬️

Jen

PS- if you’d like to read my favorite letters, the best way to encourage my work is to buy my book on Amazon here.

PPS - in case you missed last week’s letter full of poems on riding the pendulum of polarities, read it here.

~~~

🌟Quote to inspire

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”

- Sylvia Plath (The Bell Jar, 1963)

Greetings from Phuket, Thailand my friends! I’ve been here with my parents and leave in a few days. I’m so grateful to have people who love me travel to come see me. I feel so special. More another time on a recap on life lately. Until then keep on learning. :)