in between

a place between the lines.

Certainty is fear of the unknown dressed up as a fact.
To search for the truth requires attention. 
It requires community. Stillness. A little light. 
A willingness to risk your own conclusions.
A malleability that encourages us to keep asking 
as we all wander home to ourselves.

The most sacred action: 
be willing to dismantle anything that the truth can destroy.

Wander without demanding to arrive. 
Notice. Name. Say. Ask. 

This is an opportunity for that.
A place to pause.
To remember.
To remake meaning in real time.

You’ll find essays. 
Questions with teeth. 
Threshold moments. 
Notes from the margins.

What I’ve read. What I overheard. 
What I don’t yet understand.
What glimmers. What aches.

What lives under the story I tell? What part of myself have I exiled in the name of trust issues? What if wonder is more trustworthy than willpower?

Not because I have anything figured out, 
but because I’m willing to say I don’t and explore the unknown anyway.
What a beginning that is. 

Some call it beginner’s mind. Others call it naivety.
I call it openness. Presence. Precision. 
The space behind the noise. The emptiness between the things.
Aware enough to pause. To inhale.
The gap as a portal. 
When we recognize vast emptiness, the ego quiets. 
Wonder gets louder. 

We trade telling for asking, certainty for curiosity. 
We stop lecturing and start listening.
We begin again.

My own path to not-knowing was a strange sort of training. 
I was born into every kind of external everything. On paper, I’ve been set. And somehow inside, I was hollow. 
Even hollow feels too neat. Too pure. 
Hollow implies spaciousness. 
I felt tightness. 
Dislocation.

Fear’s architecture: sharp corners, silent rooms. 
So I sought control. Or escape. 
Any alternative to feeling the silent discomfort of nothingness. 
Anything to dull the ache. Anything to create a false sense of ease.
I chased.
Pills that could turn my brain into a manmade control center.
Anxious at all meant too anxious. Sad at all meant too sad. 
Tired was failure. Busy was success. 
The chemicals rewarded me for being perfect while quietly killing me.

Pristine surfaces masquerade as high performance, 
but they’re just decorated coffins. 

Eventually, I was grieving two things at once: the life I was lucky enough to be given and the life I was fucked up enough to destroy.
The top of the building. The bottom of the hill. 
Those two coordinates, so far apart they shouldn’t even meet, became my compass. A strange one, impossible to recalibrate.

Where is the baseline if I’m constantly in motion? Which way is north? 
Somewhere between north, south, east, and west, I find myself. 
The invisible in between. 
The spectrum of life and all its feelings, ebbing and flowing around me. 
A professional noticer of the process.
Learning to unlearn. Knowing to know nothing at all. 

I sit, watching a mote of dust float through the air. No breeze. No reason. 
Just hovering. 
The whole world moving fast and this one thing staying in the air. 
Still. A pause. A speck of wonder. 

The space between the lines to create.
No hot take. No how-to. 

Just a space to breathe. To be. 
To feel a little less alone.

To remember what you forgot you knew.
And to forget what you thought you had to know. 

This is a place for excavation.
A space to get lost without needing to find our way to a destination.

To learn without urgency.
To name what hurts and trust what glimmers.

So, come as you are.
Bring your contradictions. 
We begin—not with answers, but with the willingness to ask again.

I’m so glad you’re here.