Traversing the Messy Middle

I get to choose how I will show up, even when I can’t see the ending.

Hello, friends and readers,

It’s been three months since I moved out of the home I shared with Jason, my wasband. Initially, there was a great deal of relief—the decision to separate was a huge step in reclaiming my authenticity and letting go of the tenuous control I had over my own feelings. It’s amazing how much burnout I experienced in the process of trying to cram our platonic friendship into a marriage-shaped box, and allowing our relationship to stretch out into its natural form has been so freeing for both of us.

I knew that there would probably also be uncomfortable feelings that came eventually. But I don’t think knowing this really makes it any easier to go through. It’s like, I knew that Sage would likely hit a tricky stage in toddlerhood because she was a very chill baby, but knowing this doesn’t make the emotional outbursts and food struggles any easier to navigate. Perhaps it just makes me more aware, more able to give myself grace to be with her in the process rather than expecting her to be different. Perhaps knowing that the discomfort would come gives me grace to be with myself in this process, not expecting that I should know better or be past this already.

As I was walking in the sunny winter wonderland of my neighbourhood this afternoon, I was reflecting on the messy middle stage of any story. In movies, this is the part where a 5-minute montage shows the protagonist going through the process of finding themselves and what truly matters to them—often represented through reconnecting with their passions, taking care of their bodies, reading, spending time with friends, reflective walks, etc. What it doesn’t show is how uncomfortable the middle feels, how uncertain it can be. It’s the part of the story where we come face-to-face with our wounded beliefs that no longer serve us, but we haven’t yet discovered or fully integrated the new beliefs we hope to embody.

Moving out and considering my identity as a separated woman has felt like the start of my new story, one full of hope and possibility. Since then, however, the reality of what brought me into my marriage in the first place has become more apparent to me, and I’m learning to let go of old narratives in order to embrace those that better align with who I am now. I wish the process was like a nice, clean video montage of me doing all the right things and finding what I didn’t know I needed all along. I’d like to skip to the end and avoid having to take a good look at myself…

But avoiding the messy middle means also avoiding the gift of revelation. And I don’t mean that in a weird, Christianese sense; I mean that in the way of having who I am more deeply revealed to me. When I think of my very good friendships, the ones I lean on and trust and confide in, I think about the ways in which we have cultivated that friendship through revelation. Over time, we have shared our innermost truths to each other—the more that has been revealed, the more intimate these relationships have become. But the trust is most significantly built when one person is brave enough to share their struggle, their messiness, their wounded beliefs and the other person holds space and compassion rather than expressing judgment or dismissing it altogether.

Ironically, I’ve cultivated more capacity to hold space and compassion for the people I care about, but I’m noticing that I still judge and dismiss my own messy parts.

A belief that continues to live deep in my bones is that I will feel complete when I have a romantic relationship. This is a core belief I learned from family members lamenting that their troubles in life were due to not having a significant other, from books and movies and TV, and from my own attempt to receive love and attention from boys when I couldn’t get it from my parents. I don’t really like looking at this part of me, because it undermines the view I have of myself as being strong, wise, and connected. And yet, if I never look at it, if I never show it compassion and understand why it exists, then I won’t be able to consciously choose a new narrative.

This process has not been enjoyable or straight-forward. At times, I feel like I’m just wandering around in the dark. I don’t always trust that there could be something beautiful around the corner if I can’t actually see it. I’d much rather push for the thing I can see, even if it doesn’t feel quite right. Scarcity mindset, believing I’m not good enough, and all sorts of other stories keep me clinging to certainty in the fear that if I let go, I won’t have anything. I held on to my marriage for so long because letting go has left me afraid that I won’t find someone who holds similar values, who delights in my children, who makes me feel safe and seen and loved. My marriage didn’t ever feel fully right, but at least it was something.

The gift of this stage of my life, where there is no certainty of outcome, is that who I am is being revealed to me, even the parts of myself I don’t really want to look at. The gift is that I am able to choose whether I want to continue judging or dismissing my innermost truths or be curious about them. The gift is trusting the fires to forge me into something stronger, more integrated, more resilient than I was before.

What do you do when you’re in the messy middle?

How does uncertainty feel in your body?

What stories do you tell yourself when you want to jump to the ending?