No one talks enough about that strange, melancholy, nostalgic, bittersweet place in time. It is the horizon where grief has not completely faded but no longer consumes you, either.
It arrives in waves and quiet little hums. And sometimes, when you least expect it, the wave still crashes violently onto the shore. The clouds grow dark and heavy, the sky opens, and suddenly, the tears you thought you had already spent return.
It is brief.
It rarely lasts long.
But grief does not necessarily mean regret. Perhaps it simply means that something was precious. That it mattered. That the life you once knew has changed, and growth is guiding you in the direction already ordained for you. A part of you still mourns what was, what could have been, and what you once hoped it might become.
Healing is not linear, they say.
No kidding!
But no one talks enough about the glimmers of hope there, either.
The unexpected relief.
The return of a cognitive and emotional freedom you had almost forgotten existed. The first full, deep breath you permit yourself to take after years of shallow, measured breathing. Learning to sprint on an open road where you had once been tiptoeing and walking on eggshells.
It is a place where possibility feels expansive, even when its edges are still shrouded in remnants of fear. A place where joy and hope, though still fragile, can exist alongside uncertainty.
Cautious optimism, perhaps? Where optimism is appealing but occasionally still feels a little foolish.
A place where you begin to recognize yourself again. Not merely the version of you who learned to survive. But the woman who existed before …somehow more resilient, more beautiful, and wiser now.
It is the edge of something. The beginning of the unknown. Of feeling so alive, yet sometimes so profoundly alone.
The gray zone, if you will.
Or maybe it is blue.
Like a blend of the blue of the sky and the teal of the ocean.
The blue that exists somewhere between the red you had been living in for longer than anyone ever knew…and the green you are still afraid to step into, even though some part of you dreamt of it long before.
And somewhere in that blue, you begin to understand that arriving here was not a simple matter of fault or failure. God knows it was after the very best of your efforts, patience, and intentions. And somehow you no longer feel the need to prove that to anybody.
Such is life, I suppose.
Strangely, clarity can come even amid messy transition. Perhaps clarity is not always knowing exactly what happens next. Perhaps sometimes, it is simply knowing that you can no longer remain where you were.
In this blue, the days can be bright. Pain and doubt may still show their faces, but they no longer rule.
One moment, you are driving alone in your car, wiping away tears. The next, a song blares through your speakers, and you catch a glimpse of your children’s faces in the rearview mirror.
You remember the kindness of the family and friends who held you, witnessed and stood beside you. You think of the people you only recently met who, unknowingly, are healing something within you in ways you never thought possible.
One endearing look, one kind word, one warm embrace at a time.
Your heart starts to feel whole again.
The clouds part just enough to let a little light through.
And in that moment, your faith gently reminds you of what you have somehow always known:
You will be okay.
You rest in knowing that the greatest and most perfect love you seek already lives within you and that it is one of God’s greatest gifts.
In this blue, you have found your way back home to yourself.
You are going to be okay.