Liminal Space 4: Reshaping
When life changed without your consent and you're forging something new
AKA When You Didn’t $%&* Ask for This
Oh gosh, you guys.
This one is a doozy.
And honestly? I'm still feeling the tidal wave (pun intended) of my last reshaping liminal space.
Here’s what this one looks like:
A layoff.
A diagnosis.
A divorce you didn’t see coming.
A wildfire, a flood, a phone call that changes everything.
You weren’t seeking a transformation.
But here you are—standing in a life that may bear little resemblance to the one you had yesterday.
The first few days or weeks of this space?
I call that acute liminal.
You’re not processing. You’re just trying to get your feet under you.
Then comes the quieter reckoning:
That your identity—or a major part of your life—has irrevocably changed.
After Hurricane Helene hit my small town last fall, before I’d found a new place to live, I offered a hurricane-specific version of my liminal space short course. Just for people affected by the same storm.
You know what?
Zero people came.
I was surprised. So many of us were impacted.
But then it clicked: in the first days, weeks, even months, you’re in survival mode.
Pausing feels like a luxury.
I told this story recently to someone who works professionally with communities after natural disasters, and he said, “Give it a year.”
A year out is when people can finally begin to sit with what happened—and what’s happening.
That made total sense to me.
This kind of liminal space doesn’t feel open or expansive at first.
It feels like rupture.
Something has ended—but not gently. Not on your terms.
You didn’t get to prepare.
You didn’t get to choose.
And yet—like every liminal space—it still asks questions:
What’s most important right now?
What really matters?
Do you want to meet yourself (and those around you) in fight-or-flight—or with calm and curiosity?
This space requires rebuilding:
Of identity.
Of relationships.
Of safety.
Of self-trust.
It can feel like you’re walking through fog without a flashlight.
But here’s what I’ve learned:
You don’t have to rebuild all at once.
You don’t have to know exactly where you’re going.
You only have to begin again—one small act at a time.
Even in disruption, there is agency.
Even in grief, there is emergence.
You are not who you were before.
But you are not finished becoming, either.
This kind of liminal space is forged in the fire (or flood. or family court. or the halls of the hospital).
And yet, many people who move through it report something surprising:
Eventually, the space opens up.
Not back to what was—but forward.
Into something stronger.
Something truer. More whole. Better.
P.S. If you’re beyond survival mode, or just want to know what to look forward to, read on and join me this week…
I’m in the middle of five blog posts where I’m sharing the five different types of liminal spaces, from most obvious to least. (Not for nothing, I’ve been through every one — more than once!)
If this space feels familiar to you, join me for Liminal by Design on May 9. (Or sign up to get the recording and access to the month-long pop-up community.)
It’s a short, potent course to help you make sense of this moment—and take tangible action inside it.
You’ll also get the rest of this series delivered straight to your inbox when you sign up.
Photo via Unsplash