The in-between bit

Where the magic happens, but no one posts about it

A parting festival gift “incase I’d lost my marbles”

There should be a name for the emotional whiplash that comes after a high. Not the crash, exactly. Not the comedown. The bit after that. When the glitter’s been washed off, the laundry’s still not done, and you’re sitting on the sofa wondering why your house feels like it’s swallowed all the silence in the world.

Post-Glasto, I found myself in that place. The festival had been magic. So much laughter, off-the-grid joy, people I adore. Then it ended. And I came home to an empty house, no plans, and no Peanut (my emotional support dog, temporarily on loan to my mum). I’d done everything right - given myself days to decompress, lined up sleep and snacks and solitude. And still, the loneliness came. Loud. All at once. It’s the first time I’d felt it in ages.

I nearly downloaded the dating apps again. Not out of any real desire to meet someone, but just to feel the comfort of a notification. That little breadcrumb of connection. I didn’t, in the end. But I saw how easily we reach for something - anything - to soothe. A dopamine hit. A distraction. A reminder that we’re still wanted. Still seen.

There’s no judgement in that. It's just something I noticed - the instinct to fix, to fill. And how it shows up again and again, especially in the moments where life isn’t giving us much to hold onto.

The in-between bit never gets much airtime. We talk about the highs - the trips, the loves, the festivals, the fresh starts. We talk about the glow-ups, the reinventions, the lessons learned. But we rarely talk about the bit in the middle. The adjustment period. The boredom. The unease. The grey. The bit where it feels like nothing’s happening, but everything is.

After a breakup, people rally around you. They listen to the story. They check in. They send memes. Then comes the new haircut, the hot girl walks, the sense of renewal. But the most formative stuff happens in the weeks and months in between, when you’re alone with your thoughts and there’s no story yet to tell. When you can’t see the glow-up coming, and you’re not even sure who you are without the person you lost.

It’s the same with travelling. You go away. You expand. You grow. You come back. Everyone asks, “How was it?” as if the story’s wrapped. But it hasn’t. You’re just starting the real work and figuring out how the new version of you fits into the same old life. The in-between bit is where that work happens. Quietly. Without ceremony.

And then there’s dating. People celebrate when you find someone. They celebrate when you’re happily single and thriving. But the bit where you’re dating - where you’re opening yourself up, where you're letting yourself hope - that’s the bit that requires the most vulnerability. And it’s the bit that most people skim past.

We don’t celebrate uncertainty. We celebrate outcomes. But it’s in the uncertain places that life actually expands. In the bits where you don’t know what happens next. Where nothing’s guaranteed. Where your identity is still stretching into something you haven’t quite named yet.

I don’t thrive in uncertainty. I never have. I want clarity, momentum, a plan. But life doesn’t always work that way. Some phases are just… grey. Not the end. Not the beginning. Just the blurry stretch where you’re figuring it out. A little lost. A little undone. And sometimes, that’s exactly where you need to be.

We live in a world obsessed with the arc. The climax. The closure. We want the before-and-after shot, the 10-step transformation, the plot twist and the resolution. But most of life happens between the chapters. In the slow, uncomfortable build. In the waiting room of becoming.

And the truth is, we’re always in some kind of in-between. It’s just easier to name it in hindsight. At the time, it feels like being suspended in mid-air - not sure what’s coming next, not able to go back. But this is living, too. And sometimes, it’s the part that grows us the most.

What I’m realising is that the in-between is where the most honest version of me tends to show up. When I’m not being mirrored back by love, or adventure, or attention. When I’m not performing or planning. When I’m just… here. Sitting in the quiet. Feeling the pull to soothe, but resisting the urge to move too quickly.

That’s where you meet yourself. Without the noise. Without the distraction of becoming something shinier. Just you, in all your not-there-yet messiness.

I’m trying to stay with that version a little longer. To not rush to reframe the discomfort. To not reach for the shortcut. To sit in it and notice what it’s asking of me.

Detach from the outcome. That’s been my quiet mantra. Let this bit be what it is, not what it should already be leading to. Maybe that’s where the shift happens. Not in the before. Not in the after. But in the middle, where it’s murky and tender and entirely yours to feel.

So next time it hits - the ache, the silence, the nothingness - I hope I remember: this isn’t empty. This is the in-between bit.