Suspended between floors
Be in an elevator… ironically in my last big liminal zone, between my 10 year job at IDEO and joining Old Navy.
We were at a rooftop party in Lausanne, Switzerland, when we got the text: an elevator full of our business school peers, on leaving the party, got trapped between floors.
Trapped. Between. Floors.
They sent us a picture from inside that tiny car. It was a tight squeeze. (Gah!) It was an hour before they were freed (gaaah!). I took the stairs that night.
When I was searching for a metaphor for the liminal zone (the time between an ending and a new beginning), I had lofty notions: it's like a marathon. It's like a meandering river.
But the image of that damn elevator ride wouldn't get out of my head.
I hate elevators. I don't hate liminal zones. Why did that claustrophobic and rickety lift (as they say across the pond) insist on being in this story?
Actually, an elevator ride is a better analogy for how we often think about the liminal zone: best gotten through as quickly as possible, with very few people traveling with you. Ideally, you go in one side and you’re spit out the other end near instantaneously, maybe with a tropical vacation thrown in the middle. Voila: you’re in a new world (with glowing skin to boot).
Is that how your liminal zones have gone?
Because I can't think of one of mine that's felt that way (even when I’ve inserted the tropical vacation). Instead, liminal zones often feel more like that cramped ride, trapped between floors, feeling stuck. Whyyyy am I still here? Who are these people asking me when it will be over? Why is it so hot in here? Or they feel like a slow ascent up the adjacent staircase, with landings that look like a spot to stay but turn out to be temporary resting points. Why am I so tired when I’m not doing much?
To be sure, liminal zones can be fast, but I've yet to see or experience one that doesn't cause a hiccup or two. Even if those nagging questions come after you've made the leap, not between one thing and another.
Most of my clients come to me when they want to make a decision or they're facing a transition, but haven't yet arrived (either at a choice or a destination). But a fair percentage have also come to me after they've chosen, moved, switched roles, etc. And they're wondering: did I do the right thing? Am I in the right place?
I think that specific elevator ride kept coming up in my brain over and over again because more often than not, I expect a liminal zone to be fast and smooth, but often, it comes with surprises.
But, what if there were a better analogy? Like building a house? There’s the old adage that you should allow twice the time and twice the cost you expect for a renovation or build. There’s a temptation to look at that with skepticism, cynicism, and a determination to be the exception to the rule. (Or is that just me?!) But I’d argue that the adage is not only right, it’s a good thing. For renovations and for liminal zones.
Why?
As with renovations, the time and the cost of liminal zones are usually worth it. Because we're bumping up against questions we hadn't thought to ask before we got there, and we're seeing things we couldn't when the walls were all intact. And we’re building the foundations of our new lives.
My own current liminal zone is exemplifying all of those things: I'm in the midst of building a startup. I can roughly see where it's going. Yet the walls are just studs and it's not going to be habitable for a while yet. Like in a renovation, I am mostly blind to the decisions and hurdles I'll face along the way. (But seriously, isn't that for the best? I don't think I would have started my house had I known all it would take to finish it.)
So, building on that (ha, see what I did there?), I want to propose a new adage, one that might help us approach liminal zones differently: time taken matters less than clarity created. In that spirit, instead of asking “when will I know what’s next?” Ask: “what am I unclear on and how can I gain confidence?” Then use those steps as signals of momentum, even as the destination remains distant.
For me right now in the building of my startup, the more I can ask not “when will it be a raging success?” but questions like the following, the better:
What don’t I know about creating a scaled coaching business, and where can I learn?
What does direct-to-consumer marketing and sales look like these days, and how can I gain confidence?
For the former, this past spring, I allowed myself the gift of the support of a coach, and I can now say I know what are the building blocks of a scaled coaching business and how to get started on them. More helpful than a looming time-based deadline. And frankly, the insight I gained redefined my notions of time-to-scale anyway.
I’ve supported my clients in reframes like these:
Instead of, “I’ll know where I’m going to live by the end of the year,” we explored “what’s most important to you in this phase of life, and how can we help you gain confidence in that?”
With another client, we replaced “I’ll go full time in my new business by February” with “what does it mean to your desire for stability to give up a corporate job and become an entrepreneur? How can we explore different elements of stability to see what supports you well?”
Because liminal zones are by definition times of ambiguity and uncertainty, how could we know exactly how long they’ll take to traverse? I mean, how often are you wrong about how long ordinary tasks will take? (For me: all the time.) And there’s a lot more certainty there. So, if it’s possible, allow yourself the grace of time fluidity in the liminal zone, and add in some clarity-based signals. By taking your eye off the proverbial elevator needle, you may find time goes faster than you realize.
As for me, I’m releasing the notion that any future liminal zones are going to look anything like a scary elevator ride, or even a seamless one. And instead, look at them as something that is helping me rebuild or fortify my foundations to better suit the next phase of my life.