The Messy Middle
Real questions from students and followers. Honest responses from the in–between.
These are not advice columns. They are quiet, thoughtful responses to real questions asked by my students and followers navigating life’s uncertain moments. Each story begins with a sentence someone submitted—about grief, change, identity, loss, or not knowing who they are anymore. From there, I write from the in–between. Not to fix. To be with. What you’ll find here isn’t a how-to. It’s a space where becoming is still in progress.
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This is a collection of emotionally grounded responses to real questions submitted by readers. Each entry is written from the place between clarity and conclusion—where something is shifting inside, but the meaning hasn’t fully arrived. If my essays offer insight, these stories offer presence. It’s not about what’s been figured out. It’s about what’s still unfolding.
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The essays on my site are structured, clear, and psychologically resolved. They’re meant to offer understanding. The Messy Middle is different. These pieces are written in direct response to what someone is carrying. They’re more personal, less polished, and intentionally unfinished. They sit with ambiguity, emotional transition, and the quiet honesty of not yet knowing.
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The questions that spark these stories are often short and emotionally raw. A single sentence is enough. “I thought I was over it. Then today happened.” “I don’t know who I am anymore.” “I left, but I still miss them.” These fragments don’t need to be explained—they just need to be real. If it’s something you’ve been carrying and don’t have words for yet, this might be the place to start.
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If you’re holding something in the in–between—grief, confusion, loneliness, transition—you’re invited to send a single sentence, a brief reflection, or a quiet wondering. You can stay anonymous if you prefer. I don’t respond to every submission, but I read them all with care. Some may become the spark for a future story here.
“I Don’t Think I Ever Learned How to Be Alone”
Solitude can feel terrifying when we were never taught how to be alone. This reflection explores emotional regulation, dependency, and how to build a safe, nourishing relationship with yourself.
“Everything Is Fine. So Why Am I So Anxious?”
When nothing seems wrong but your body stays anxious, it’s not irrational—it’s patterned. A reflection on trauma residue, baseline dysregulation, and the invisible labor of relearning peace.
“Why Does Joy Feel So Fleeting?”
Why does joy vanish so quickly? This reflection explores the vulnerability of happiness, the role of hedonic adaptation, and how nervous systems shaped by pain can learn to hold pleasure without fear.
“I’m Scared That I’ll Never Feel Truly Close to Anyone”
Craving closeness while fearing it isn’t contradiction—it’s an attachment wound. This reflection explores the fear of intimacy, self-protection, and what it means to slowly build trust in connection again.
“I Forgave Them, but I Can’t Stop Replaying What Happened”
Forgiveness doesn't always silence the memory. Even when we mean it, the body may still be healing. This reflection explores complex forgiveness, memory loops, and why grace and grief often walk hand in hand.
“I Don’t Know How to Want Anything Anymore”
When desire goes quiet, it’s not failure—it’s disconnection. A body protecting itself. A soul waiting for safety. This is the blank space between burnout and becoming. A reflection on numbness, self-trust, and the slow return of wanting.
“Why Does Peace Feel So Unfamiliar?”
Peace isn’t always comforting at first. When you’ve lived in urgency long enough, calm can feel like absence, stillness like a threat. This isn’t dysfunction—it’s adaptation. And relearning safety takes time.
“I’m Afraid That If I Slow Down, Everything I’ve Been Holding Will Collapse”
When we’re afraid to stop, it’s not laziness we’re resisting—it’s collapse. But the breakdown we fear isn’t caused by slowing down. It’s caused by never stopping. Rest isn’t failure. It’s a return to ourselves.
“I Don’t Want the Life I Had, but I Don’t Know How to Want Something Else”
Letting go of the past doesn’t always mean you’re ready for the future. Sometimes there’s just blank space. Not failure, not apathy—just the quiet in-between. A space where desire hasn’t returned yet. This isn’t nothing. This is becoming.
“I Feel Like I’m Watching the Country Unravel and No One Cares”
When institutions collapse in plain sight and others call it normal, the grief isn’t just political—it’s personal. This is not overreaction. It’s heartbreak. And your refusal to go numb is its own quiet act of resistance.