They charge by weight for interstate moves,
So I had to be ruthless.
Every object asked a question,
Not do I love this,
But am I willing to carry this forward?
I learned quickly that memory is heavy.
So is fear.
So is the version of myself that overstayed because it was familiar.
Some things were easy.
Some things surprised me.
What I thought was essential turned out to be habit.
What I thought I could discard asked for one last look.
I packed what I could live with and I left behind what had already lived its life.
Starting over isn't traumatic,
It's quiet sounds,
Like tape sealing a box.
It looks like an empty room.
They charge by weight for interstate moves,
But no one tells you how much lighter life can feel when you choose what comes with you when the wait is over.
This time of year on the calendar asks for motion,
Resolution,
Direction,
Forward energy,
But some of us aren't able to move yet.
Not because we're stuck,
Because we're carrying weight.
Not the kind you shed quickly,
The kind that has history,
Holding power,
The kind that has taught you something.
Waiting can be imperceptible from the outside,
But inside it's active.
It's listening.
It's sensing what's heavy and what's simply familiar.
There's a difference.
Some things feel heavy because they no longer belong.
Others feel heavy because they've been held for a long time.
Not everything that weighs on us is ready to be released.
This is where I've come from and where I've been living in what I call moving weight.
There is perpetual motion here,
Just not the kind that satisfies the calendar or the culture.
This movement is internal,
Subtle,
Often invisible.
In the body,
It feels like slowing the breath instead of forcing it,
Like noticing where I brace,
Like letting a sensation finish its sentence before interrupting it with meaning.
This space between holding on and letting go is uncomfortable,
Summoning attention.
It doesn't offer clarity right away.
It doesn't reward urgency.
But it's honest.
Truth will be told.
Endings live here,
Not the dramatic kind,
The quiet ones,
The ones that don't announce themselves until you realize something has already given way.
Beginnings live here too,
Formless,
Not ready to be named,
Felt more as a pull than a plan.
This is the threshold,
Not what was,
Not yet what will be.
And this is the scope of liminal matters.
Change doesn't start with insight alone.
It starts with attention,
With the body.
By staying long enough to feel what we usually brush past.
We begin with the body because the body is the origin,
Harboring a timeline all its own.
It remembers without words.
It carries experience,
Not as stories,
But as patterns,
As reflexes,
As weight.
When we learn to attune rather than override,
Something shifts,
Not all at once,
Not perfectly,
But honestly.
If you find yourself waiting,
Still carrying what's heavy or familiar,
Still unsure what's ready to be released,
You're not behind.
You're energy in motion,
And this space exists for that.
Moving weight in your body,
Discerning what you're not ready to let go of and why.
Endings you can feel,
But not name,
Beginnings that don't have language yet.
This is where liminal matters meet you,
Right where you are.
This work doesn't promise resolution.
It leads to more room,
More tolerance for what's here,
Now.
Less urgency to fix or flee,
And more space to be.
Welcome.
You can come back anytime.
