Threshold Space

The threshold doesn’t come with instructions.
It comes with a gut-drop.
A flicker of panic.
A sense that nothing’s solid.

You don’t know whether to run or collapse—
whether this is breaking down or breaking free.

This is the space between no longer and not yet.
Where your old survival code starts to glitch,
but the new pattern hasn’t fully stabilized.

Your body defaults to bracing—then you remember to breathe.
Your nervous system scans for exits.
Your mind loops the old defense scripts,
just to keep the familiar pain alive.

And still—something’s shifting.
You’re not reacting the way you used to.
You don’t chase the fear as quickly.
You don’t contract as hard.

It’s disorienting.
You’re not quite fluent in the freedom you’re starting to glimpse.
But your system is testing new ground
against the default operating system.

This is where most people turn back.
Because what’s known—even when it hurts—feels safer than what isn’t.

But if you can stay—
If you can breathe through the static—
If you can let the void stretch you instead of swallow you—

Then the threshold becomes the portal.

It’s not a mistake.
Not a setback.
Not a regression.

It’s the architecture of change.
The rupture before repair.
The hollow space through which everything new begins to take form.

Stay long enough,
and your body learns to trust stillness.
Your mind stops rehearsing collapse.
Your soul chooses to stay.

Stay long enough,
and the silence doesn’t break you—
it builds you.

This is the threshold.
Unstable. Holy.
Fertile with what hasn’t yet come into being.

Not a detour—
but the doorway.