About eight or nine months ago, I had a dream where I was running down what felt like a freeway. It was wide and open, but half of it was gravel. Loose and unstable, the kind of surface where you have to stay alert because traction can disappear at any moment.

At the same time, a powerful wind was coming straight at me. It wasn't carrying me forward. It was pushing against my body, making every step harder.

Behind me were people I no longer wanted to be with. I wasn't running from them in panic. I was running because I knew I didn't belong there anymore. I'd spent much of my life trying to fit into places and relationships where I never really felt I belonged, and something in me had finally grown tired of trying.

And then one of my shoes flew off. Of course it did.

A strong gust of wind sent it flying backward, toward the people I'd left behind. For a moment, I considered going back to get it. I could retrieve my shoe, or I could leave it behind and figure out how to move forward without it.

When I woke up, I understood something about where I was in my life.

Nearly eleven months ago, a significant loss in my personal life set off a much larger internal transition. It was humbling and demoralizing, particularly because I'd spent years examining my own patterns and believed I'd made considerable progress. But what surprised me most was what happened afterward. The desire to keep pursuing relationships simply drained out of me. It wasn't a decision I'd made or another boundary I was trying to maintain. I just didn't want to do it anymore.

That change gradually extended beyond relationships. I began noticing how little interest I had in many of the things I'd previously pursued. Even ordinary social interactions sometimes felt like more effort than I wanted to make. Increasingly, I preferred my own company.

I've been living in what feels like liminal space ever since.

What Is Liminal Space?

The word liminal comes from the Latin limen, meaning threshold. Anthropologist Arnold van Gennep introduced the concept in his study of rites of passage, identifying three stages of transition: separation from a previous role or identity, the liminal period between identities, and incorporation into a new one. Anthropologist Victor Turner later expanded on the concept, exploring the uncertainty and ambiguity of existing between established roles.

Although liminality originated in anthropology rather than clinical psychology, it offers a useful framework for understanding what happens when the identity we've known begins to change, but we haven't yet established what comes next.

Liminal space can occur after divorce, the death of a loved one, a career change, becoming a parent, children becoming independent, or any significant experience that alters how we understand ourselves. Sometimes an external event disrupts our lives. Other times, we gradually recognize that our interests, priorities, or beliefs have changed, even when the circumstances around us remain relatively stable.

Our identities provide a sense of continuity. We understand ourselves through our relationships, responsibilities, values, routines, and expectations for the future. When those begin to change, it can be disorienting because we lose some of the familiar reference points that have helped us make decisions and organize our lives.

We may know what we no longer want without having any clear idea of what we want instead.

When the Life You Wanted No Longer Appeals to You

One of the more surprising aspects of my own experience has been how much my desires have changed.

I've always considered myself curious, adventurous, and interested in exploring the world. I enjoy learning, experiencing new things, and having something to look forward to. Those qualities have been part of how I've understood myself for as long as I can remember.

But over these past eleven months, I've begun noticing how often my desire to experience life was accompanied by an urgency to keep moving, pursuing, or accomplishing something.

The familiar impulse still shows up sometimes. I'll think about going somewhere, meeting people, or pursuing another interesting experience, and for a moment, I feel myself responding the way I always have. But increasingly, another part of me has little interest in following through.

I'd rather sit with my coffee, look at the oak tree outside, and spend time with my animals.

What's particularly strange is that I'm beginning to enjoy things I used to fear, especially being alone. I love watching television, writing, talking to my best friend on the phone, and doing the work I do as a therapist. I love my morning oatmeal and coffee. I'm discovering how satisfying ordinary life can feel when I'm not constantly thinking about what else I should be doing.

My understanding of motherhood has also been changing. For years, I associated being a good mother with doing everything within my power to protect my children from difficulty. But I've been reconsidering what that role means as my children grow older and our needs and responsibilities change.

I still care deeply about their well-being, but I increasingly want to support their ability to navigate life rather than assuming responsibility for every outcome. It's a different understanding of motherhood from the one I've carried for years, and I'm still becoming accustomed to it.

These changes have made me curious about how much of identity is built around things we genuinely enjoy and how much comes from expectations we've absorbed or roles we've occupied for so long that we no longer question them.

Sometimes we continue pursuing goals because they're familiar, even after the reasons we originally wanted them have changed.

A person who spent decades building a career may eventually discover that professional success no longer provides the satisfaction it once did. Someone who always imagined being in a relationship may find that living alone is unexpectedly enjoyable. A parent whose identity revolved around raising children may begin questioning who they are as those responsibilities change.

These experiences can be confusing because we often assume that our desires and priorities should remain relatively consistent. When they change, we may wonder whether something is wrong or whether we've lost an important part of ourselves.

But our identities aren't fixed. As our circumstances, experiences, and understanding of ourselves change, what we want from life can change too.

Why Being Between Identities Feels So Uncomfortable

One reason liminal space can be unsettling is that we tend to organize our lives around a relatively stable understanding of who we are.

We develop routines, make plans, and pursue goals based on our expectations about what will make us happy or give our lives meaning. When those expectations change, we may find ourselves questioning decisions and priorities that once seemed obvious.

There's also the uncertainty of not knowing whether these changes are temporary or permanent.

I've wondered whether my preference for a quieter life is simply what I need right now or whether my priorities have changed more fundamentally. I've questioned whether I'll eventually return to the same level of activity and social engagement I once enjoyed.

I've also considered the effects of prolonged stress, exhaustion, and the changes that naturally occur during midlife. There isn't necessarily one explanation for everything we experience during a major transition.

Psychologically, uncertainty can be uncomfortable because it limits our ability to anticipate what comes next. Research on intolerance of uncertainty has found associations between difficulty tolerating unknown outcomes, worry, and anxiety. When we can't predict what will happen, we may feel compelled to make plans, seek reassurance, or find explanations that restore a sense of certainty.

During an identity transition, however, we may not have enough information to know what the next stage of life will look like.

We may also experience conflicting emotions. A change can bring relief while simultaneously involving grief for something we once valued. We can appreciate aspects of our former lives without wanting to return to them.

I think this is one of the more difficult parts of liminal space. We may feel pressure to decide who we're becoming before we've had an opportunity to experience what life is like without the identities and expectations we're leaving behind.

Sometimes we respond by creating another set of goals or trying to establish a new direction immediately. But that can keep us occupied with planning the future rather than noticing what's changing in the present.

How Do You Know If You're Experiencing Liminal Space?

Liminal space isn't a mental health diagnosis, and there isn't a clinical checklist for identifying it. It's a way of describing a period of transition when familiar aspects of identity have begun to change, but a new sense of self hasn't fully developed.

You might recognize this experience if you've begun questioning a role that's defined you for years, lost interest in goals you once pursued, or discovered that your priorities have changed following a significant life event.

You may feel uncertain about your next steps, even when you know you don't want to return to the way things were. Activities and relationships that once provided a sense of purpose may feel less satisfying, while unfamiliar interests or preferences begin emerging.

It's also possible to feel both relieved and unsettled by these changes. You may welcome the freedom that comes from leaving an old role while missing the familiarity and structure it provided.

Liminality itself doesn't explain changes in sleep, energy, or motivation, which can also be associated with stress, mood changes, or physical health concerns. What makes the concept useful is its focus on identity and the uncertainty that can accompany major transitions.

Rather than assuming that we need to return to who we used to be or immediately establish a new direction, it gives us a framework for understanding why we may feel unfamiliar to ourselves for a while.

Learning to Live Without Knowing What Comes Next

When I first reflected on my dream, I focused on the fact that I kept running despite the wind, gravel, and missing shoe. I interpreted it as a reminder to continue moving forward, even when the path was difficult.

But months later, I'm beginning to see something else in it.

I've spent much of my life pursuing relationships, experiences, opportunities, and understanding. Even personal growth sometimes became something I approached through effort, as though there were always another problem to solve or something about myself I needed to improve.

I've also spent years trying to anticipate outcomes and gather enough information to make the right decisions. I believed that if I understood enough, I could protect myself from disappointment or making mistakes.

But lately, I've become less interested in figuring everything out.

I'm allowing myself to rhythm of the process rather than concentrating on what I'm going to accomplish. I'm becoming more comfortable declining invitations, spending time alone, and choosing experiences based on what genuinely appeals to me.

What I've been noticing is how easily I can slip into evaluating my life according to what I'm doing, where I'm going, or what I should be working toward next. Those habits are familiar, even when they no longer reflect what I want.

I've been living in this transitional space for nearly eleven months, and I still don't know exactly what comes next. There are moments when I wonder whether I should be making more plans or pursuing new experiences. But I'm increasingly able to recognize when those impulses reflect old expectations rather than genuine interest.

I'm discovering that I can enjoy my life without constantly searching for the next thing that might make it better. I still have responsibilities, interests, and experiences I'd like to have, but I'm less concerned with determining where all of it is leading. For now, I'm enjoying the ordinary experiences that have become unexpectedly meaningful to me.

I want to drink my coffee, watch the oak tree outside, spend time with my animals, and write when I feel inspired. I'm no longer in such a hurry to figure out what comes after this period of my life, and I'm beginning to appreciate the possibility that I don't need to.

As for the shoe I lost in my dream, I think I'll leave it where it landed.

Therapy for Identity Changes and Life Transitions in Austin

Major life transitions can leave us questioning the roles, relationships, and expectations that have shaped our sense of identity. Therapy can provide an opportunity to explore those changes, understand the emotions that accompany them, and reconsider what matters to us as our lives evolve.

I'm a Licensed Professional Counselor and founder of Being Real, PLLC, in Austin, Texas. I work with adults navigating major life transitions, relationship difficulties, developmental trauma, and questions about identity and self-trust.

My approach includes EMDR, Brainspotting, and attachment-based and somatic therapies, with an emphasis on helping clients understand themselves and develop ways of living that are consistent with their values.

Learn more about working with me at Being Real, PLLC.