Some Seasons Don’t Have a Clean Ending

Sixteen months ago, my dad entered hospice just after Christmas. Somewhere between sitting with him and trying to hold the rest of my life together, I stopped knowing what came next.

That season is behind me now. But the feeling isn’t.

We’ve since moved from the Midwest to the West Coast. New city. New rhythms. Friendships that don’t exist yet. And a quiet, persistent discomfort that feels surprisingly familiar.

That’s the thing about transitions nobody warns you about. It’s not the change itself that gets you. It’s the not knowing. The in-between. The season where the old thing is ending and the new thing hasn’t arrived yet. And you have no idea how long you’ll be standing in that gap.

Maybe you’re there too. Not necessarily with a parent or a cross-country move. Maybe it’s a career that no longer fits. A relationship that’s shifted. A version of yourself you’ve outgrown but haven’t replaced. The details are different. The feeling isn’t.

Here’s what I’ve learned from my own transitions and from working with people in the middle of theirs: the gap doesn’t close because you figure it out. It closes because you keep moving through it.

Sounds simple? It isn’t.

When things feel uncertain, the mind wants a plan. A timeline. A clear next step. And so we research, strategize, and prepare. Sometimes for so long that preparation becomes its own form of hiding.

I’ve done it. After a career pivot years ago, I spent months getting ready to be ready. What actually moved me forward was designing a logo for my hairstylist. Then building a website for my chiropractor. Small, unglamorous work. But it was real. And real builds confidence in a way that planning never does.

The same is true for any transition. You don’t think your way through the gap. You walk through it.

This one is harder. Especially for people who’ve spent years being competent, capable, and in charge of outcomes. Transitions have a way of humbling all of that.

What you can control is narrower than you’d like, but it matters. You can control whether you show up. Whether you keep learning. Whether you take care of yourself well enough to stay in the game. Whether you reach out instead of isolating.

During the hospice season with my dad, I had to refocus more times than I can count on what I could actually do today. Not what I wished the situation was. Not what I’d do if things were different. What was in front of me, right now.

That’s not resignation. That’s how you conserve energy for what matters.

My dad entering hospice wasn’t on my timeline. The move from the Midwest to the West Coast was. Different kind of hard. We knew what we were leaving. We didn’t fully know what we were walking into — a new city, an unfamiliar rhythm, friendships that didn’t exist yet.

The financial costs were real. Moving truck, deposits, the expenses that show up whether you planned for them or not. But the harder costs were quieter. Leaving people you’ve done life with for years. The goodbye that doesn’t feel complete because you’re not sure what you’re saying goodbye to yet. Then arriving somewhere new and starting from scratch.

That last part, building friendships from nothing, takes longer than anyone tells you. And it’s uncomfortable in a way that’s hard to explain to people who haven’t done it.

Here’s what both seasons taught me: the discomfort of not knowing how it ends is the same, whether the transition chose you or you chose it. What changes is how you resource yourself through it.

Figure out what you need to sustain the in-between.

You’re not going to feel ready before you move. Confidence doesn’t show up first and then you act. It shows up because you acted, and survived, and acted again.

The gap closes one step at a time. Not one insight at a time. Not one perfect plan at a time.

What’s one step you can take today?

Take it. See what you learn. Then take another.

That’s how this ends.