The Threshold Season: Why This Time of Year Feels So Tender

Before I dive in, I want to name what I mean by threshold: mostly because I’ve been living inside one lately, and I needed a word for it.

A threshold is the space between what was and what’s becoming. It’s the moment before anything is fully formed, named, or visible. It’s not quite the old thing, and not yet the new one either.

I wrote a little haiku for it:

Here is the crossing point
The doorway, an in-between
I breathe in the pause

This time of year always feels tender to me. Sometimes emotionally fragile. There are a thousand reasons why, but if I’m honest, one of them is that family is complicated. Belonging is complicated. Becoming yourself while still trying to stay connected to others is complicated.

And sitting in transition can feel helpless!

I notice how quickly I want to fix it. Or define it. Or turn it into a plan. I start reaching for goals that don’t quite fit, just so I can feel like I’m moving somewhere, anywhere. Sometimes I catch myself trying harder to belong to other people than to myself.

Maybe you know that feeling too.

I’ve moved through a lot of changes in my life, and I’ve come to recognize both the hardness and the softness of thresholds. They can feel heavy and hollow at the same time. Quiet, but loud inside your body.

When I notice a transition happening, I tend to panic a little. Change lights up my nervous system with fear and urgency and a desire for control. I want to rush through the doorway instead of standing in it.

I’ve learned, though, that when I move too fast, I miss what the threshold was trying to show me. I skip the growth part. I only take the label or the outcome and leave the internal shift behind.

And honestly, that never really works.

So lately I’ve been practicing something that doesn’t come naturally to me: slowing down. Not just externally, but internally. Letting my body have a say. Letting my heart speak before my head tries to organize everything. Letting conversations be imperfect and unfinished.

Not running. Not forcing clarity.

Just staying.

It’s surprisingly hard. And surprisingly relieving.

It feels important to say this plainly:
It is okay to move through a threshold slowly. Quietly. Gently.
It is okay to feel scared. Or hesitant. Or unsure.
It is okay for this to be a both-and season, tender and strong, confusing and meaningful, heavy and alive.

Gentle growth is still growth. Sometimes it’s the only kind that actually lasts.

This is where art becomes a companion for me.

I don’t always know what I need when I choose or make art, I just know I’m reaching for something. Sometimes I’m honoring what’s behind me. Sometimes I’m orienting myself toward what’s ahead. Sometimes I’m just trying to feel less alone in a moment that doesn’t have language yet.

The art we live with can hold us. It can reflect us back to ourselves. It can steady us. Or soften us. Or quietly point toward what we’re becoming.

So if you’re standing in a doorway right now, rearranging a room, hesitating before a choice, sensing something shifting but not knowing what to call it yet, I hope you let your space support you.

Let your walls hold you.
Let beauty keep you company.
Let yourself take the long way through.

You don’t have to cross quickly to cross well.