Mommy Finger, Baby Finger

There’s a quiet ache that comes with being in-between — not who you once were, not exactly where you want to be, and not yet who you’re becoming and not yet where you hope to arrive. It’s that space where you’ve outgrown old versions of yourself, old patterns, even old relationships… but the new version of you hasn’t fully arrived, and so you wait, hovering in the middle. Life transitions like these can feel disorienting, lonely, and heavy, but they’re also opportunities for personal growth and self-reflection.

Lately, I’ve been learning to live here, in the middle space and adapt. Some days feel exciting and empowering. I’m hiking early in the morning, lifting weights after recovering from a pinched nerve and regaining my strength, feeling my body come alive again. I’m learning to honor what I need, to speak up without guilt, and to respond from awareness instead of reacting emotionally— at work, at home, in all the spaces I occupy. I’m branching out, meeting new people, and trying to embrace where I am. For example, I love the ladies I’ve been meeting at church — their stories, their sisterhood, their honesty — it’s helping me feel connected in a new way.

At the same time, there are the other days that ache — the ones where I grieve the people and pieces of myself that no longer fit in my world. I grieve for the friends I’ve lost along the way, those who are married or building their own lives, and while I’m happy for them, I’m still on my single-mom journey. I grieve my grandmother, my safe space, especially during the holidays when her absence feels sharpest. I grieve my life in Texas, while slowly realizing that I’m now in Arizona. These feelings ebb and flow, reminding me that growth often comes with loss, and it can be messy and emotional.

Can I be blunt and not cutesy or holy? This middle space can sting. It sucks to feel ready for the next chapter and still hear God saying, not yet. I’ve been thinking about Moses a lot lately, you know, the man God called to lead His people out of Egypt — yet he spent forty years and many seasons wandering in the wilderness before the promise he believed in fully came to fruition. He knew God’s promise was real, but he had no idea when it would arrive. And honestly? Who wants that kind of wait – let’s be real. I don’t want to feel stuck in circles, wondering when the next chapter will show up. 

I’m guilty of hovering over my prayers, asking God to do it now, right this minute. How about now? And sometimes the waiting feels very annoyingly real — like when my daughter asks me if it’s almost time for her to get braces, and I’m still checking insurance, my finances, trying to figure out the right moment. And yet, here I am doing the same thing by wrestling with God in this waiting, frustrated by what I can’t see. Sometimes it feels like sitting in a waiting room. You’re ready, anxious, and all around you it seems like everyone else is being called in before you. You start wondering if you’ll ever get your turn — if there’s even a solution. It can feel heavy, unfair, and endless.

And yet, in the midst of it, I’ve also been hearing repeated messages that God’s timing is perfect, even when it doesn’t match my schedule. So, I challenge myself daily to believe that the waiting room isn’t a place of punishment. Maybe it’s a place to notice what’s around me: the relationships that remain, the lessons I’ve learned, the small comforts that are easy to overlook. Maybe the real work isn’t just waiting but learning to stop complaining about what I don’t have and to truly appreciate what I do.

After all, this in-between — this space of not yet — is still life. Visiting my grandmother’s grave also reminds me how short life can be. It’s a gentle nudge to savor what’s here, now. As my favorite Pitbull song says, “every day above ground is a great day,” and that’s exactly what I try to hold onto — even in the waiting, every day I’m alive is a day to grow, to breathe, to be present, and to truly live.

And in the end, it all comes down to this simple reminder: Sonríele a la vida. Smile at life.

From my heart to yours,
Jeannette | @_mujerdepalabras