I added a new title this fall! You won't see it on my business card, or email signature but it is indelibly etched on my heart: Successful Bird Launcher.
Our youngest left for college, and instead of coming home to a quiet house right away, my husband and I said a tearful good bye, got in the car and drove the Pacific Coast Highway for six days. The open road with the ocean on one side, and dramatic cliffs on the other turned out to be exactly the right place to sit with a strange in-between feeling: the space between what is no longer and what is not yet.
No longer the daily rhythm of school mornings, dance performances, and a full dinner table with our girls AND their friends sharing stories and laughs. As for the "Not Yet"...well, I am not sure... although this next chapter is slowly taking shape while I find my feet.
What surprised me most wasn't the scenery, though it was breathtaking. It was the people. Along the way, we stopped in cities where colleagues, who over the years have become dear friends, opened their doors to us. They fed us, walked with us, asked how we were really doing, and listened to the answer. Each stop felt like a soft landing. By the time we turned toward home, the transition felt gentler and sweeter than I ever expected.
It reminded me how much our village matters during big life moments. It reinforced my belief that we don't have to journey alone, and we're not meant to.
So, I am curious: what does this mean for you, in your life right now?
Maybe you're navigating something big. Perhaps your children have launched and the house suddenly echoes. Perhaps you've lost your life partner, and the home you built together now holds a different kind of quiet. Perhaps a door down the hall stays closed more often than it opens: a bedroom, an office, a craft room that no longer gets used.
Those rooms can feel heavy. And yet, I've come to believe they can also hold possibility. A home is not only a record of who we've been; it can become a reflection of who we're becoming. Sometimes that means reimagining a room. Sometimes it means reimagining the whole house. And sometimes it simply means letting ourselves stay a while in the "not yet" without rushing to fill it.
Wherever you are, a few thoughts I'm carrying from the coast:
Let your village in. The people who love you want to help carry the load. Say yes when they offer.
Honor what was. The "no longer" deserves gratitude, not just grief.
Stay curious about what's next. The "not yet" isn't empty. It's just unwritten.
Choose joy on purpose. Change will come one way or another. We get to decide how we travel through it.
If you're standing in your own in-between right now, I'd love to hear about it. And if you're wondering what home could look like in this next chapter, I'm always happy to be part of your village.
With warmth,
Nilmini
