The Messy Middle
Real questions from students and followers. Honest responses from the in–between.
Not everything needs a solution. Some things just need to be said out loud and given space to breathe.
The Messy Middle is where real questions live — the raw, uncertain, in-between places we usually hide. Each entry responds to a reader’s confession or quiet wondering, not to fix it, but to hold it up to the light. These are reflections, not answers. Invitations, not instructions. Because being human isn’t about resolution — it’s about recognition.
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.
-
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.
-
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.
-
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.
-
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.
“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.
“I Want Connection, but I Don’t Trust Anyone”
Wanting connection while fearing it isn’t contradiction—it’s the legacy of trust injuries. This reflection explores relational hypervigilance, emotional protection, and the slow work of learning to let someone in.
“I Don’t Feel at Home Anywhere Anymore”
When nothing feels like home—not a place, a person, or even yourself—you’re not broken. You’re in emotional motion. This reflection explores rootlessness, identity shifts, and the grief of belonging to places that no longer fit.
“My Parents Are Aging and I’m Not Ready”
Watching your parents age brings grief long before loss arrives. This reflection explores anticipatory grief, role reversal, and the quiet ache of facing mortality through the people who once felt invincible.
“I’m Tired of Being the Strong One”
Being “the strong one” often means being unseen. This reflection explores the quiet cost of parentification, emotional overfunctioning, and the exhaustion of always holding others up while denying your own need to fall apart.
“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 Want to Start Over, but I Don’t Know Where to Begin”
Wanting to start over isn’t a failure—it’s an awakening. But beginning again doesn’t start with a plan. It starts with truth. This reflection explores identity shift, transition, and how to rebuild from what’s real.
“I Keep Choosing People Who Hurt Me”
When we keep choosing people who hurt us, it’s not because we’re broken—it’s because we’re trying to resolve an old story. This reflection explores trauma bonding, repetition compulsion, and the long road back to self-worth.
“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.
“Why Do I Always Feel Like I’m Too Much—Or Not Enough?”
Feeling too much or not enough isn’t about who you are—it’s about how you were once received. This reflection explores the roots of core shame, identity confusion, and the lifelong pattern of shape-shifting to stay loved.
“I Love Them, but I’m Not in Love Anymore—And I Don’t Know What to Do”
When love shifts from fire to silence, what do you do? This is the ache of romantic ambivalence—the quiet grief of loving someone you’re no longer in love with, and the courage it takes to listen for what’s true.
“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.
“I Used to Be Someone People Looked Up To. Now I Don’t Even Recognize Myself”
When your old identity fades and you no longer see yourself in the mirror, it’s not weakness—it’s the disorientation of change. You’re not lost. You’re becoming. And recognition takes time when you’ve been holding so much.
“I Feel Like Everyone Else Has Moved On, and I’m Still Stuck in a Memory”
When everyone else has moved on but you’re still caught in a memory, it can feel like grief with no audience. You’re not behind. You’re honoring something real. Healing isn’t a group schedule—it’s a personal reckoning.
“I Want to Be Alone, but I Also Want to Be Missed”
You can crave solitude and still want to be missed. Longing for quiet doesn’t erase the need to matter. This is the emotional middle ground of the self-reliant—the ache of disappearing and hoping someone still sees you.
“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 Miss the Person I Was Before Everything Fell Apart”
Sometimes the deepest grief is not for what was lost, but for who we were before the loss. This is a reflection on identity, fatigue, survival, and the quiet ache of missing a former version of yourself.
“I Feel Invisible in a Room Full of People Who Claim to Love Me”
There’s a particular ache in feeling invisible to people who say they love you. When presence goes unnoticed and truth echoes into silence, the pain isn’t imagined—it’s abandonment in disguise.