The Magic You Miss While Waiting For Life To Start

You're waiting for life to start, but it's already happening—in the constraint, the fog, the sunrises you almost miss. This is the in-between.

The Magic You Miss When You're Waiting for Life to Start

The sunrise here happens in layers. First the sky goes soft—pale pink bleeding into gold—and then the light hits the mountains in a way that makes them look like they're glowing from the inside. I almost missed it this morning. I was too busy being frustrated about logistics, about constraint, about the gap between what I thought this would be and what it actually is.

But I looked up. And there it was.

I'm in Quartzsite right now, living in an RV, trying to build something I can't quite name yet. And it's not going the way I imagined. There's more waiting than momentum. More adjustment than arrival. More asking for help than I'm comfortable with.

But there are also these mornings. These sunsets. These random foggy dawns that turn the desert into something otherworldly.

And I keep learning the same lesson over and over: the magic only shows up when you stop waiting for life to start and actually look around at the life that's already happening.

The Fantasy vs. the Fog

You arrive somewhere new—Quartzsite, a new city, a new job, a new version of yourself—and you expect it to feel like beginning. Like ignition. Like something is finally starting.

Instead, it feels like more middle. More in-between. More waiting for the pieces to fall into place before the real thing can begin.

So you keep your head down. You focus on solving the problems. You stay busy trying to get to the other side of this temporary phase so life can finally start happening.

And while you're doing that—while you're waiting—there's fog rolling through the desert at dawn. There are sunsets that turn the sky colors you didn't know existed. There are mornings so quiet you can hear your own breath.

You miss all of it because you're not supposed to be here yet.

But here's what I'm learning, slowly and reluctantly: the in-between isn't the pause before life starts. It's where life is actually happening.

What the In-Between Actually Is

It looks like constraint. The vehicle you don't have. The income that isn't stable yet. The connections that haven't solidified. The clarity that hasn't arrived.

It looks like needing help when you were raised to be self-sufficient. Like asking for rides when you're used to moving independently. Like coordinating your life around other people's schedules when you're built for autonomy.

But it also looks like this:

A sunset so vivid you stop mid-sentence and just stare. A foggy morning that turns the RVs into ghost shapes and makes the whole desert feel like a dream. Light hitting the mountains at an angle that makes you pull out your phone not to post it but just to remember that this moment existed.

The laughter of strangers who might become friends. The quiet steadiness of showing up when you don't feel like it. The small shifts that happen when you stop resisting where you are and actually inhabit it.

The in-between has texture. It has beauty. It has moments that will never happen again.

But only if you stop long enough to notice.

The Gen X Shame We Don't Name

We were raised to be competent. To figure shit out alone. To not need help, not ask for rides, not depend on anyone.

So when you're here—stuck in the middle, not arrived yet, needing things you don't want to need—it feels like failure. Like you should be further along by now. Like the in-between is proof you didn't plan well enough.

And that feeling—that low-grade shame of not being where you're "supposed" to be—keeps you from actually being where you are.

You're so busy trying to solve your way out of the in-between that you don't see the sunrise. You don't feel the morning air. You don't notice the light.

You miss the life that's happening because you're waiting for the life you think you're supposed to be living.

What Shifts When You Stop Escaping

You start noticing what's actually here. The light. The quiet. The moments that only exist because you're in this exact spot, in this exact constraint, in this exact not-yet-clear phase.

You start seeing the people around you differently. Not as placeholder connections until the real ones show up, but as actual humans standing in their own in-betweens.

You start recognizing that the thing you're waiting to begin? It already started. You're in it. This is it. Not the warm-up. Not the transition before the real thing.

This is the life.

And it has sunsets. And fog. And beauty you'll miss if you don't look up.

To the Woman in Her Own In-Between

Maybe you're in a new job that doesn't feel like you thought it would. A new city where you don't know anyone yet. A new version of yourself that hasn't solidified. A relationship transition. An identity shift. A threshold you're standing in without a map.

Maybe it feels like more waiting. More in-between. More constraint than momentum.

And maybe you're doing what I was doing: keeping your head down, staying focused on solving the problems, waiting for life to start once you get to the other side of this.

But life isn't waiting.

It's happening right now. In the middle of the mess. In the constraint. In the not-yet-clear.

The in-between isn't the pause. It's the life itself.

And the magic—the real, actual, irreplaceable magic—only shows up when you stop trying to escape it and look around at what's already here.

This morning the sky went soft before it went bright. Pink, then gold, then something I don't have words for. The mountains glowed. The air was cold and still.

I almost missed it.

I was in my head, frustrated about logistics, about what wasn't working, about how long this is taking.

But I looked up. And there it was.

The life I've been waiting to start. Already happening. Right in front of me.

I don't know how long I'll be here. I don't know when the constraint will ease or the clarity will come or the pieces will fall into place.

But I know this: I don't want to miss any more sunrises because I was too busy waiting for my life to begin.

To the woman standing in her own in-between, waiting for life to start: look up. It already did.