Momentum That Doesn't Look Like Momentum: When Progress Happens in the In-Between

Cheryl Wentzel Author

You're waiting for momentum to feel like momentum. But what if the doors are already opening and you just don't recognize them yet?

Momentum That Doesn't Look Like Momentum

I crawled into bed last night and felt the mattress settle under me—firm enough, soft enough, just right—and caught myself thinking thank god for this bed. A month ago I was swearing at this same mattress, convinced it was part of everything that felt wrong. But last night? Gratitude. Genuine, unexpected gratitude for a bed that hadn't changed at all.

That's when I realized: something's moving.

Not in the way I thought it would. Not with the clarity or momentum I was waiting for. But moving nonetheless.

I'm two weeks into 2026 in Quartzsite, and nothing looks like progress. Two random jobs came across my desk—I applied to both. I volunteered at the Women's RTR craft tent and met a few people. Nothing earth-shattering. A potential collaboration, maybe. A vehicle option appeared out of nowhere. The situation that put us here without transportation is starting to resolve.

None of it feels like momentum. It feels like... showing up. Responding. Doing the next small thing without knowing if it matters.

But here's what I'm learning: momentum doesn't always look like momentum when you're standing inside it.

What We Expect vs. What's Actually Here

We expect momentum to feel like ignition. Like things clicking into place. Like clarity arriving and suddenly the path is obvious and forward motion is undeniable.

We expect doors to open with clear signs above them that say THIS WAY. We expect opportunities to feel significant when they show up.

So when a random job posting appears, we hesitate. Is this even relevant? Should I spend the energy applying when I'm not even sure it's the right thing?

When we meet someone at a craft tent and exchange contact info, we downplay it. Probably nothing will come of it.

When we show up and nothing dramatic happens, we assume we're still waiting. Still in the in-between. Still stuck in the part before things actually start moving.

We miss the momentum because we're looking for something bigger, shinier, more obvious.

What Momentum Actually Looks Like

It looks like responding.

Two jobs appear—neither one was on your radar, neither one fits the plan you had in your head—and you apply anyway because they're here, they're open, and responding is what's in front of you.

One of them is weirdly aligned. More aligned than you expected. The other does something different—brings stability, creates breathing room, solves a practical problem. You don't know which one will land or if either will matter. But you showed up for the door when it opened.

That's momentum.

It looks like volunteering even though you don't have transportation and have to coordinate rides. You meet a few people. You exchange numbers. You mention what you're building. Maybe it goes somewhere. Maybe it doesn't. But you were present. You showed up. You let yourself be seen.

It looks like a vehicle option appearing—not the perfect one, but one that could work, one that solves the immediate constraint. And instead of dismissing it because it's not ideal, you consider it. You respond to it.

Momentum looks like a hundred small responses to what's actually here—not what you wish was here.

Waiting for Proof Before We Believe It's Real

We were raised to be skeptical. To not get our hopes up. To not count on anything until it's signed, sealed, and actually happening.

Don't celebrate until you know for sure. Don't tell anyone until it's real. Don't trust it until you can see it working.

So we stand in the middle of momentum and refuse to name it. We dismiss the small things because they're not proof yet. We downplay the doors opening because they might not lead anywhere. We wait for external validation—the job offer, the signed contract, the undeniable evidence—before we let ourselves believe something's shifting.

And while we're waiting for proof, we miss the fact that we're already moving.

The jobs appeared. We applied. That's action. That's response. That's energy moving.

The people showed up. We exchanged contact. That's connection forming. That's possibility opening.

The vehicle option came through. We're considering it. That's problem-solving. That's momentum toward resolution.

But because none of it feels conclusive yet, we tell ourselves nothing's happening.

Momentum Happens in the Responding

I'm a Generator 1/4 in Human Design—built to respond, not initiate. For years I thought that meant sitting still and waiting for life to happen to me. But that's not what responding is.

Responding is active. It's showing up so the doors can find you. It's being visible enough that opportunities can land in your field. It's applying when the job appears. It's volunteering when the invitation comes. It's saying yes to the collaboration conversation even when you're not sure it'll go anywhere.

Responding isn't passive. It's the work.

And here's what I'm realizing: momentum doesn't come from making things happen. It comes from responding to what shows up, even when it doesn't look like what you were waiting for.

The two jobs? I wasn't looking for either of them. But they appeared, and I responded.

The people at WRTR? I didn't go there to network. But the conversations happened, and I showed up for them.

The vehicle option? We weren't actively searching. But it came across our path, and we're responding to it.

None of it was initiated by me. All of it required me to be present enough to notice and respond.

The Bed I Was Swearing At

A month ago, this bed felt wrong. Too firm in some places, too soft in others, never quite comfortable. I'd lie down at night frustrated, adding it to the list of things that weren't working.

Last night, I crawled into the same bed and felt grateful. Not because the bed changed. Because I did.

Something inside me softened. Some internal clench released. Some small recalibration happened that I didn't even notice until I was lying there thinking thank god for this bed.

That's the momentum you miss if you're only looking for external proof.

The internal shifts. The small perspective changes. The moment you stop fighting what is and start noticing what's actually here.

I know there are women out here in Quartzsite and beyond who didn't have a comfortable bed last night. Who don't have a bed at all. Who are standing in constraints I can't imagine. And that awareness—that recognition of what I do have, even in the middle of what I don't—is part of the momentum too.

Gratitude isn't bypassing. It's noticing. And noticing is how you see the momentum that's already happening.

When You're Standing Inside Momentum But Can't See It Yet

Maybe you're telling yourself: still waiting. Still in-between. Still stuck in the part before things actually start.

But what if the story you're telling yourself is wrong?

What if the pause you're feeling isn't lack of momentum—it's just what momentum looks like before you've learned to recognize it?

The doors don't announce themselves. They show up quiet, small, seemingly irrelevant. And if you're waiting for the kind of door that looks like a door, you'll miss every single one.

The thing you said yes to even though you weren't sure why—that's a door.

The conversation that seemed like nothing but left you thinking about it for three days—that's a door.

The internal shift you almost didn't notice, the softening you can't quite name—that's a door too. The kind that changes everything even though nothing external has shifted yet.

You're responding. You're showing up. You're present enough to notice when something appears in your field.

That's not waiting. That's not stuck. That's not the pause before life starts.

That's momentum.

You just can't see it yet because you're standing inside it.

Two Weeks Into 2026

I don't know if either job will come through. I don't know if the collaboration will happen. I don't know if the vehicle situation will fully resolve or if we'll still be figuring it out in March.

But I know this: something's moving.

Not because I forced it. Not because I figured it all out. Not because I finally got clear on the path.

Because I showed up. Because I responded. Because I stopped waiting for the momentum to look like momentum and started noticing the small shifts, the quiet doors, the internal recalibrations that signal something's changing.

The bed didn't change. I did.

The jobs didn't appear because I was ready. They appeared because I was present.

The people didn't show up because I had it all together. They showed up because I was there.

Momentum doesn't wait for you to recognize it. It just keeps moving.

And the only question is: are you paying attention?

To the woman standing at the edge of herself, in her own in-between, wondering if anything's actually moving: look closer. The doors are opening. The momentum is here. You just don't see it yet because you're standing inside it.