After months of momentum, effort, and focus sending off my second coaching session recording for my ICF accreditation, navigating an intense end-of-year period at work something shifted. The task was done. The chapter closed. I did several recording in case I don’t pass this second attempt. I stopped chasing what’s next’ and everything calmed down. It’s easier to say surrender and trust the process than actually be living in a process of a milestone. So in December I’ve decided to book a week in France to spend time with my family for the start of the year after the work I did with my recordings. On top of that it was so busy at work with Christmas and new year.
No next obvious step while spending time with my family. I arrive in France by coach and got delayed by snow falls. And spent quality time with my family stuck at home by snow and ice. We removed the Christmas tree, watched TV, walks, chatting, played with the dog… I really needed this to start the year of the fire Horse. I couldn’t exercise as I wanted because of the bad weather outside. But the most important was to be at home spending as much as quality time as I could. And focused on what I can control. I was delayed and stuck at home by a snowstorm. But the most important in that case is to be stuck at home.
It reminded me to live my life without caring of things I can’t control. And taking actions based on what I can control and living life like tomorrow doesn’t exist. The task was done. The chapter closed. And instead of clarity, I met… space. No urgency or next obvious step. No pressure screaming for attention. Just stillness.
Living a lazy life
I lived what might judged as a lazy life. Long hours on the sofa. A blanket pulled up to my chest. The television murmuring in the background. Meals taken slowly, without structure. Conversations drifting in and out. Falling asleep unintentionally, waking without guilt. No alarms and no urgency. No sense of tomorrow demanding preparation. Just today. At first, my mind resisted. It looked for productivity to latch onto, meaning to manufacture, progress to justify the stillness. By acknowledging and accepting that snow had other plans. With nowhere else to be, my heart softened.
I noticed the quiet comfort of sharing space with my family without an agenda. The simplicity of being together without doing anything special. The safety of ordinariness. This wasn’t escape. It was surrender. Living as if tomorrow didn’t exist wasn’t about denial it was about presence. About letting the body rest before the mind could explain why it deserved to. In that slowed rhythm, something subtle happened. I stopped trying to figure out what was next. And in that openness, I felt ready for it. Not with answers. But with an open heart. Sometimes the most honest preparation for the next chapter is allowing yourself to lie down, wrap yourself in a blanket, and trust that life knows when to wake you up.
You are exactly where you need to be
There is a quiet realisation that arrives when resistance finally loosens its grip. Nothing is missing. Not clarity. And not motivation or direction. Just the old belief that I should already be somewhere else. I used to be full of expectations about the next chapter to quickly reveal itself. But sitting there, snowed in, surrounded by familiarity and warmth, something landed with surprising certainty. I am exactly where I need to be. Not because everything is figured out. Not because the path ahead is clear. But because this moment is asking nothing of me except honesty.
Being exactly where I need to be doesn’t mean settling or giving up on ambition. It means recognising that growth doesn’t always look like movement. Sometimes it looks like alignment. This place, this pause, this home, this stillness is not a detour. It is part of the journey. There is wisdom in arriving fully where your feet already are. In letting go of the inner negotiation that says, I’ll relax once I’m further along. Here, I don’t need to perform my future self and no need to rush toward meaning. I can trust that life hasn’t made a mistake with my timing. And from that trust, something steadier emerges. Not urgency But readiness.
We are trained to fear the gap
As I’m waiting for a feedback about my ICF accreditation it’s important for me to have in mind that I will take the next step myself. The next step will be me looking for opportunities for my career as a coach to really take off. I don’t expect anything unless me to take that next step. This seems daunting for me that people will pay me for coaching sessions. But I see my career as something more than work and beyond transaction.
When at work at the Deli I don’t care whether people come to buy or not. Because of the fact that some regular customers just pop in to say Hello or having a chat. Now I see this transition of career with humility and no expectations of things to be perfect. I don’t expect anyone to give me an opportunity. Transitions are not easy and that’s what my time with my family was about. At a young age teachers put pressure on us to find a direction. Like rushing us for the next chapter after school.
From an early age, we are conditioned to move seamlessly from one chapter to the next. Finish school, choose a career. Reach a goal, set a bigger one. Achieve something meaningful, then immediately ask: What’s next? Pauses are rarely celebrated. They are often interpreted as:
- Lack of ambition
- Loss of direction
- Wasted time
- Falling behind
So when nothingness appears, many of us rush to fix it. We fill our calendars. We manufacture urgency. Or we chase the next identity, the next milestone, the next version of ourselves. But what if the gap isn’t broken? What if it’s doing exactly what it’s meant to do?
Why That Space is Uncomfortable But Where Integration Actually Happens
A chapter doesn’t truly end when the action stops. It ends when the experience has been integrated. The space between chapters is where the nervous system exhales. Where lessons settle beneath the surface. Where identity quietly recalibrates. You don’t consciously do this work. It happens when you walk with your mum to the grocery store. When snow delays your plans. When you sit without needing to prove anything. Also when life slows you down enough for meaning to catch up. This is not stagnation. It is digestion. Without this space, growth becomes mechanical. Performative. Disconnected from wisdom.
Nothingness threatens the part of us that equates worth with productivity. When there’s no goal to chase, no role to perform, no achievement to point to, an uncomfortable question arises: Who am I when I’m not becoming something?
That question can feel destabilising. So we distract ourselves. We label the feeling as anxiety. Or we call it restlessness. We try to outthink it. But often, what we’re feeling isn’t a problem it’s unfamiliar peace. A silence we don’t yet trust.
Letting the Chapter Close Fully
One of the biggest misunderstandings is believing that stillness means nothing is happening. In reality, some of the most important shifts are invisible. Roots grow underground. Identity reorganises quietly. Clarity forms before language catches up. The next chapter doesn’t arrive through force. It emerges when the previous one has been fully honoured.
Closing a chapter isn’t about rushing forward. It’s about acknowledging:
- What this chapter taught you
- What it cost you
- What it gave you
- What no longer needs to be carried forward
Only then does the next direction arise not as pressure, but as invitation.
