The Summer I Learned Not to Rush What’s Next

This summer has been the epitome of transition.

Not necessarily the dramatic kind where everything falls apart and you suddenly have to rebuild your entire life. It has been quieter than that. More reflective. The kind of transition that makes you look around at your life and realize that some things have ended, some things are beginning, and some things are still becoming.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that, I realized something:

I was grieving.

But probably not in the way you think.

I wasn’t grieving a death. I was grieving missed opportunities—or at least what I thought were missed opportunities.

I was grieving a previous version of myself.

I was grieving plans that didn’t unfold the way I imagined they would.

I was closing chapters while simultaneously celebrating and exploring new ones.

And through all of it, there was one question quietly sitting in the background:

What’s next?

Grief Doesn’t Always Look Like Loss

We usually associate grief with death, but I’ve learned that grief can accompany almost any meaningful transition.

Sometimes you grieve what happened. Sometimes you grieve what didn’t happen.

You can grieve an opportunity you thought would be yours. A timeline you created in your head. A relationship that changed. A dream that looks different now. A version of yourself that was necessary for one season but cannot accompany you into another.

And there is something particularly interesting about grieving a previous version of yourself. Because you can be grateful for who she was and still recognize that you cannot remain her.

That version of me survived some things. She accomplished some things. She made decisions with the information she had at the time.

She dreamed dreams that made sense for where she was.

But somewhere along the way, I started recognizing a new version of myself emerging.

And she is still emerging. I don't have all the language for her yet. I think that's part of the beauty of becoming.

Maybe It Wasn’t a Missed Opportunity

One of the things I had to reconsider this summer was my definition of a missed opportunity. We have a tendency to look at doors that didn't open and immediately decide we lost something. I should have been further by now.

That should have happened for me. I thought this would look different. Maybe I missed my moment. But did you?

I've had to sit with the possibility that some of what I categorized as missed opportunities were simply opportunities that weren't mine—or opportunities that weren't mine yet.

There is a difference. Everything that doesn't happen isn't a failure. Every closed door isn't rejection. And every delay isn't evidence that you're behind.

Sometimes hindsight reveals that what felt like disappointment was actually redirection. Sometimes you discover that you needed more time. More wisdom. More resources. More healing. More clarity.

And sometimes the answer is even simpler:

That wasn't the door.

I Had to Learn to Pause

I am a planner.

I like knowing what's next.

There is comfort in having a destination, a strategy, and something on the calendar that tells you where you're headed.

But this summer challenged me to do something different.

Pause.

Exhale. Look around. Lean into the moment I'm actually living instead of constantly trying to manufacture the next one. That's harder than it sounds.

We live in a culture obsessed with what's next. What's the next goal?

The next launch? The next opportunity? The next relationship? The next promotion? The next level?

We celebrate beginnings so loudly that sometimes we don't know how to simply exist in the middle.

But there are things you can only learn in the middle. There are things you can only see when you stop moving long enough to notice them.

So I gave myself permission to pause. And then I had to learn something equally important:

Don't crash there.

Rest Is a Place to Visit, Not a Place to Hide

There is a difference between pausing and quitting.

There is a difference between resting and becoming stagnant.

There is a difference between giving yourself grace and using grace as permission to indefinitely avoid what you know needs to be finished.

That distinction mattered for me.

I needed the pause.

I needed room to process.

I needed to acknowledge that transition can be emotionally exhausting even when the transition is ultimately good.

But eventually, the pause has to serve its purpose.

You exhale. You recalibrate. You get your bearings. And then you keep moving. Not frantically. Not anxiously. Not because everyone else appears to be moving faster. 

But intentionally.

You Don't Need Another Pivot

This may have been one of my biggest lessons of the summer.

You do not have to jump to the "next big thing" when you have yet to see the last thing fully manifest.

Read that again.

Because sometimes we aren't stuck because we need another idea. We're stuck because we keep abandoning ideas before they have enough time to become what we envisioned.

Every new idea feels exciting in the beginning. Every pivot creates a temporary rush of momentum. Every new plan makes us feel productive. But constant movement is not the same thing as progress.

Too many pivots can have you making circles instead of making progress.

At some point, you have to stop reinventing the plan and work the one you already have.

Finish the project. Develop the idea. Give the strategy time to breathe.

Allow the seeds you've already planted to grow before digging up the ground looking for evidence that something is happening. Not everything needs to be reinvented. Some things simply need to be finished.

Finish It—And Be Gracious With Yourself

Maybe that's the word for this season:

Finish.

Not hurry. Not prove. Not compete. Not reinvent. Finish. Finish what you started.

Finish becoming acquainted with the version of yourself emerging from this transition.

Finish processing the lessons from the chapter that closed.

Finish building the thing you've already been entrusted with. And while you're doing it, be gracious with yourself. Growth doesn't always announce itself.

Sometimes it looks like changing your mind. Sometimes it looks like realizing an old dream no longer fits. Sometimes it looks like sitting still long enough to recognize how much your priorities have changed.

Sometimes growth is simply being able to say:

I don't need to know what's next yet.

There will be another opportunity.

Another idea. Another chapter. Another room. Another assignment.

What's next will come. But perhaps the invitation right now isn't to chase it.

Perhaps the invitation is to fully inhabit this. To appreciate what has already changed.

To recognize what is currently growing. To honor what has ended without trying to resurrect it.

And to give what you've already started the opportunity to fully manifest.

So, I'm learning to pause.

I'm learning to exhale.

I'm learning to lean into the moment.

But I'm also reminding myself not to crash there.

Because transition isn't the destination.

It's the space between who you were and who you're becoming.

And sometimes the most productive thing you can do in that space is resist the urge to create another pivot and simply say:

Finish it.

And be gracious to yourself in the process. 💕