There’s a space — a sacred, strange, shadowed space — that lives between the before and the after. It’s the in-between where you hold pieces of a God-centered relationship that didn’t last, but you haven’t yet fully stepped into what comes next. It’s the quiet room where your heart whispers truths you don’t have words for, where your mind races with what-ifs and maybes, and where your spirit waits for clarity.
This liminal space is neither comfortable nor clear. It’s the foggy morning when you wake up still carrying his name on your lips but also feeling the first stirrings of release. It’s the tension between longing and letting go, between faith that God’s plan is good and the rawness of feeling lost.
Sometimes it feels like you’re walking a tightrope — balancing the desire to trust God with the ache of unanswered questions. You replay conversations, trying to understand where things shifted, what you missed, what you could’ve done differently. But the answers feel just out of reach, hidden behind layers of emotion and spirit.
In this space, there are things you say aloud and things you haven’t yet dared to speak. There are moments of fierce conviction — like knowing you played a role in the unraveling, owning your parts with both tenderness and truth. And there are moments of quiet confusion — wondering if your faith was strong enough, if your love was enough, or if God’s hands were truly in it all.
It’s a place of contradictions:
Where hope and grief sit side by side.
Where forgiveness and hurt coexist.
Where you’re both broken and becoming.
And that’s okay.
Because this in-between is where transformation happens. It’s where God works in the depths, unseen but undeniable. It’s where your heart learns to trust not just the destination, but the journey itself.
You might not have all the words yet. You might still be unraveling the threads of your story — the moments you understood and the moments you didn’t. You might be holding space for both your light and your shadow, for the man you loved and the man you lost, for the faith you claimed and the questions you wrestled with.
This liminal space invites you to rest — not in complacency, but in sacred waiting. To lean into the mystery of becoming, knowing that clarity will come, in time and in grace.
So if you find yourself here — in this place between endings and beginnings — I want you to know:
You are not alone.
You are seen.
You are held.
And in this quiet, uncertain space, God’s love is still shaping you, still guiding you, still holding you close.
This is your becoming — messy, beautiful, sacred — and it’s enough.
