My marriage has become a Covid casualty, at least for now. I am in an emotional no-mans-land in between, “We need to separate,” and the apartment possession date. It’s exhausting.
Existing in a liminal space feels like your skin has been peeled off your body. Every bump in the road is jarring and breathless. The house is emptying, as I pack my whole life into boxes in the basement. I feel worthless and useless, unloved and unloveable.
Living in this liminal space is tough beyond words. But it’s also a space to reevaluate. In a liminal space, nothing is routine, and all the things you took for granted dissipate. It is a space full of possibility.
The horizon is completely open; terrifyingly so. It is impossible to know what is coming. Holding space with yourself in a liminal space is a full-time job, and I’m exhausted by mid-afternoon.
My kids are feeling it too. They are in their own liminal space as well, and they have to make their own sense of it. I try to give them as many hugs as I can, and give them space for all their feelings. My heart breaks for their little broken hearts.
But at the same time, I am hopeful. You have to have hope, because otherwise there’s no point to any of this. We’ve got to come out the other side of this stronger and happier. We just have to. And we will.
It’s just that now—in this liminal moment—everything hurts and nothing makes sense.
Featured image was created by the author using elements from canva.com.