For many (many!) years, Memorial Day weekend was super stressful for me. It was usually the final push before high school graduation. Graduation – at least back then – was always the first week in June. And my whole job was graduation – making sure every last kid who could walk, did.
There were parents calling. Teachers checking in. Students crying in my office or falling behind on packets or trying to pass their online world history class in three days. There were tests that needed to be taken, credits that needed to post, essays that needed to be turned in, and (way) more than one pep talk where I reminded someone that this wasn’t the moment to give up.
I was often the one in the middle – between teachers and students, between kids and their parents, between who a student had been and who they were hoping to become.
And even though I was (pretty) good at holding boundaries, even though I didn’t take on more than I could carry, there was still this tangible weight to those final days. Especially with the students I’d worked with for years – the ones who had become part of my world. We’d been through a lot together. They were almost there. And we all knew what was coming: The ceremony. The cap toss. The letting go.
I had a little ritual in my classroom on one of our final days, for the seniors. I’d read them Yay, You! by Sandra Boynton. Out loud. Like they were in kindergarten. I made them a mix CD (yes, a CD) with songs I hoped would help them carry forward what they’d found in our time together.
They rolled their eyes, but I knew they secretly liked it. They liked that it was finally their turn.
And then – just like that – they were gone.
I’d drive home after graduation, often alone. I was single most of those years. No one was waiting up. The house was quiet except for my dog. I’d look through the pictures I’d taken that day. And I’d feel… all of it.
Pride. Relief. Gratitude. Exhaustion. Something deep and quiet that didn’t even really have a name.
But there is a term for this kind of moment: Liminal space.
Anthropologist Victor Turner described it as the in-between – the threshold after one thing has ended, but before the next thing has begun.
And it doesn’t just happen at graduations.
Theodora Blanchfield says “a physical liminal space is perhaps the easiest to understand. You are in physical liminal spaces all the time, but typically, you often don’t notice them because you’re only there for fleeting moments.
Think of a staircase. It takes you from one floor to another, and you often don’t think twice about your time on a staircase. But what about if you get stuck in a stairwell? Then, visions of horror movies might start racing through your head.
You can see how, on a very benign level, the idea of staying in that in-between space becomes very uncomfortable.
More simply, a liminal space may be thought of as a transitionary period. People will face many different liminal spaces during all of life’s phases.”
Some last longer than others. Some are harder. But by definition, liminality has an endpoint.
Some examples: divorce, moving, graduation, empty nesting, the death of a loved one, illness.
She goes on to say that “beauty can lie in liminal spaces. Think of liminal spaces in architecture, like a beautiful atrium in the entryway of a museum. … Liminal space can be an opportunity for transformation.”
Even though I didn’t know what to name it at the time, the week after graduation was a liminal pause for me. That moment after doing the work – when I was left to sit in the quiet and think about what all of it meant.
If you’re in that space right now – if you’ve done your part and you’re taking (or being forced to take) a pause before what comes next – here are three things that might help:
1. Mark the moment.
What did you learn about yourself? How do you want to remember it? What would you want to carry forward?
2. Take care of the small things.
Liminal space can feel floaty or aimless, so anchoring into simple tasks can help your system settle. Fold the laundry. Return the emails. Clean out the bag you haven’t touched in weeks. Nothing heroic – just a few little signals that life is still moving.
3. Make a loose list of what’s yours now.
After holding space for someone else or shepherding something through, it can be disorienting to remember what you want. Take a few minutes and jot down what’s calling to you in this new stretch – even if it’s small. A book you want to read. A project you no longer want to keep on hold. A friend you miss. Start there.
I can’t wait to hear how you’re handling the liminal spaces in your own life – or how you’re learning to. And if you’re walking through that space right now, I’d be honored to walk with you.
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PS If this post made you think of someone – maybe someone in a quiet hallway of their own – I hope you’ll send it along. They can always reach me here.
