The Messy Middle

On living between the old and the new, the departed and the yet-to-arrive.

It could be my own heightened awareness, but I keep encountering “the middle”.

Friends, peers, and fellow writers talking about the in-between.

Sharing their experiences between seasons.

Articulating life amidst the old and new.

I could chalk this up to me, and my closest circle, being in our mid-30s.

It’s the career burnout. The changing family dynamics. The entering into our literal middle life.

But that’s not it. At least not all of it.

This feels a lot bigger.

As a collective, it’s like the curtain has been drawn and Oz has been revealed. We can’t simply unsee and return to life before. Whether it’s the AI of it all, the dismantling of public trust, or a newfound understanding that we can’t rely on old systems, there’s been a palpable shift.

The way of life we’ve grown accustomed to no longer feels fertile.

Previously held versions of carefree living and “following in our parents’ footsteps” are laughably retro. When someone under the age of 50 mentions their work pension, I want to swaddle them.

“Doesn’t this adorable man-child know that probs won’t exist anymore?”

Ready or not, we must leave the sepia-toned, simpler times behind and rebuild. This time with hurricane ties.

After all, we’re not going to smoke indoors, wedge ourselves into the backseat of a friend’s car, or pass out on the beach in that same careless way again.

We’re not going to graduate and lock in jobs like we used to.

We’re not going to be rewarded for yesterday’s playbook.

Sure, every generation remarks on things not being like they used to. It’s a rite of passage. But this is different.

We are not aging as quickly as the new world is arriving.

And this world does not favour playing small or “25 years of service” pins.

Those of us who’ve felt this shift have already started walking.

We’re walking without knowing where we’re going—meandering through the messy middle.

And we know we can’t go back home. Even if we could, it wouldn’t feel the same. The living room looks small. The chipped paint revealing.

Was it always like that?

The middle is somewhere between death and rebirth.

It’s grief and possibility.

Fear and excitement.

Personally, I’ve never known less about what my future will look like.

We moved to a new town, but got a place back in our old city.

I was laid off.

On New Year’s Day, my husband was also laid off.

I’ve panic-applied to jobs I’d probably hate and never heard back.

I’ve thoughtfully applied to jobs I want and not gotten them.

I want to build my own thing, but don’t know what that is.

I am entering “geriatric pregnancy” territory (how dare they) and can’t decide if we want kids.

I feel like I loaded every major life variable into a confetti cannon and pulled the trigger.

Pieces of coloured parchment are dancing in the air, delicately suspended in time and space. Most of them have yet to fall and secure themselves onto chair backs, baseboard corners, and sticky tile floors.

And yet, I feel an energy and hopefulness that I haven’t in a long time.

There’s something beautiful about the middle.

Like a still frame photograph of an uproarious scene, it’s a piece of quiet in the chaos.

As we march further into the void, we still have lots of questions.

Will we get stupid and sunburnt once more?

Will all of our jobs, minus accordion playing and ice sculpturing, be taken over by bots?

Will a cauliflower cost $47?

We don’t know what comes next. But we know we’re not going back.

And that feels like progress.