Living in the In-Between

Immigration is often framed as a decisive break, the before and the after, but that framing hasn't matched my lived reality. What I have experienced instead is a long, unsettled middle. An experience where one foot remains planted in what I lost (or still attempting to untangle from), while the other figures out how to step into a life that is still forming. This in-between space is not dramatic or cinematic. It is quiet, demanding, and persistent. It follows me through ordinary days, paperwork, conversations, moments of excitement, and moments of ache. I am not suspended because I am uncertain. I am suspended because identity, belonging, and stability do not migrate on the same timeline as the body.

Grief for What Was Stable and Known

There is real tangible grief in this journey. I lost my home. I lost two beloved pet family members. I lost a community that knew me without explanation, without translation, without effort. I lost my commune with nature in my garden, patio, and yard. I lost the invisible stability of a life where I understood the systems, the rules, the rhythms, and where competence was assumed rather than constantly rebuilt. Even the small things carried weight: knowing how to solve problems quickly, where to go for help, how to move through the world with ease.

What makes this grief particularly disorienting is that it exists alongside choice. I wanted this move. I researched it carefully. I believed in it, and still do. But intention does not erase loss. Excitement does not cancel grief. I can feel deeply grateful for new opportunity and still mourn what anchored me before. My feelings do not contradict each other; they coexist. And pretending otherwise only makes the grief heavier.

Carrying Grief Without Letting It Define the Future

Living in the in-between has required learning how to carry grief without allowing it to turn into paralysis. Some days it sits quietly in the background. Other days it surfaces with fury - in moments of bureaucratic confusion, in the absence of familiar comforts, in the realization that no one here yet understands the full context of who I am or where I’ve been. The grief is not constant, but it is a persistent friend.

At the same time, I am enthusiastically reaching forward. I am striving toward dreams that matter to me. I am building something new with intention and focus. This dual movement, both grieving and striving simultaneously, is rigorous, but it is also true. It's a chapter of fire. I am not waiting for the grief to resolve before I live. I am accepting life alongside it.

Building Confidence in a Life That Isn’t Fully Formed Yet

Confidence in a new country does not arrive as a sudden event on the calendar. It grows slowly, through repetition and exposure, through mistakes that do not end everything, through moments where I realize I can adapt even when life is unsteady. The confidence I am developing now feels different from the one I had before. It is quieter. Less rooted in familiar mastery and more rooted in internal resilience.

I am beginning to trust the path I'm building, not because everything feels secure, but because I have proven, over and over, that I can navigate uncertainty and the foundation is starting to take shape. That kind of security is not glamorous. It is deeply earned.

The Tentative Belief That Belonging Might Be Possible

Somewhere within this ongoing tension, there is the persistent nagging question about belonging. Any move to a new community begs the question of acceptance - will I truly belong? And that answer takes time. And then there is the other question - do I want to belong here? And I find myself fondly thinking that maybe this place can hold me. Not instantly. I wasn't sure if this place would fit me, but I am starting to imagine roots where before there were only plans. I am noticing routines that feel natural rather than forced. I am forming relationships that, while still young, feel grounded in sincerity and life.

Home is not something that arrives fully intact. It is something to be constructed slowly, deliberately — through presence, heartfelt effort, and patience. That truth gives shape to what I am building.

Standing in the Liminal Space

The liminal space is uncomfortable precisely because it resists closure... and I love closing loops. I am no longer who I was, but I am not yet who I am becoming. One part of me is still grieving the life that held me; another is learning how to stand confidently in a place that has not fully claimed me yet. This is not stagnation. It is transition.

The pressure to “move on” misunderstands this phase entirely. Identity does not migrate overnight. Belonging cannot be rushed. Stability must be rebuilt intentionally, not assumed. The in-between is not a detour. It is the work.

A HearthFinder Reflection

As a HearthFinder, I speak openly about this middle ground because it is where so many immigrants quietly live. Immigration is not just a logistical process or a strategic decision. It is a psychological and emotional crossing that unfolds slowly, unevenly, and without defined completion.

If you are grieving what you lost while beginning to believe in what you are building, you are not confused or uncommitted. You are integrated. You are doing the difficult, honest work of becoming rooted again.

I am still standing with one foot in each world. Still mourning what once held me. Still reaching toward a life that is taking shape. And I believe that home is not be something I return to. It is something I am carefully and deliberately building - a reflection of myself.