You can’t go back to sleep, so now what?

Well, that’s a question.

She sat in the car long after the engine stopped, one boot still resting on the clutch. The dashboard lights had gone dark. A podcast she hadn’t really listened to was still playing faintly in the background—some overcaffeinated voice listing seven morning rituals that would supposedly change your life. She didn’t move to turn it off.

It had happened again.

That quiet jolt, and then life started to warble with the wrong frequency.

This time, it was during a meeting. She used to like meetings. Ideas tossed like tennis balls, clever people volleying assets, deadlines, strategies. She used to feel smart in those rooms. Quick. Plugged in.

But now? She caught herself watching her own face in the little Zoom square, dull and empty. Mouth opening at the right times to say the right things. God, she knew her script too well. Seriously? We’re still doing this, still repeating the same words? Her body sat there nodding, but her mind had slipped out the fire exit and was already barefoot in the tall grass.

The meeting’s over, but the unease lingers. She chops onions and carrots, making soup on a quiet Sunday. Half-wondering if this was burnout again. That creeping sense of I can’t. But no, not this time. Her energy is intact. She could still do the thing—emails, invoices, the carefully composed face of competence, the swimming in the constant river of keeping it fresh. She just doesn’t want to.

She doesn’t want to keep building the old thing. She doesn’t want to pivot or rebrand or optimise. She wants to step off the stage entirely.

To walk down the aisle, out the back door, and into some quiet, open field where nothing needed managing. She imagines setting it down—gently, like a goodbye wavering at the train station—and a smile creeps onto her face, uninvited. Thank you for everything, but we’re done now.

She turns the soup lazily, and watches the steam rise, curling like questions with no interest in answers. They hang in the air, smelling roasted garlic and resignation.

Behind her on the kitchen table sit two laptops—one with the sales deck open, the other still logged into Slack. Her phone vibrates against a jar of lentils. She lets it. Somewhere in those screens smiles a version of her who’s very good at being useful, articulate, strategic. Trustworthy.

She takes a sip. Too much thyme. She could still slip into that role if needed, like a well-cut jacket. But now it doesn’t fit in the shoulders.

The middle land is a fog-lined place where nothing makes sense and no action has a goal. How could it if it doesn’t have a form?

You’re no longer where you were, but not yet anywhere new. The things that once made you feel capable, credible, alive just don’t land the same way, and the new ones haven’t fully introduced themselves yet. They are vague, unreachable, possibly sarcastic outlines in the mist.

You still function. You’re not collapsed on the floor (most days). You can hold a conversation. You might even be doing great work, technically. But underneath, you feel the drag, the friction, the sense that you’re saying yes to things you no longer believe in, or at least don’t enjoy. (And no, rearranging your Canva assets doesn’t count as soul work.) So you keep going.

Maybe you’ve spent a decade building something beautiful, and now you can’t tell whether it’s your foundation or your cage. Maybe you’ve already let it go, but the next thing hasn’t arrived, and your nervous system files a missing persons report. Maybe your creativity has shape-shifted and you’re trying to keep up, trying to figure out what it wants to become this time—other than a houseplant-loving hermit with a full Google Drive.

In this middle land, it’s easy to think you’re failing. It’s the in-between ground of inconsistency with no wings, no breakthrough, no revelatory downloads. Just fog. Soup. Strange thoughts at 3:17am. Possibly about compost. Possibly about quitting everything and starting a goat farm. (You don’t even like goats. Or do you now?)

And yet, something’s working on you.

It just doesn’t have a name. It doesn’t need one yet.

Maybe this is where you are. Not lost, broken, or waiting to be fixed, but somewhere between the old role and the unnamed next. Still capable and clever. Still able to make soup. Quietly wondering what happens if you stop trying to make the old thing work.

I don’t offer coaching. But I do walk with people—especially through this weird, fog-lined middle. Sometimes we write letters. Sometimes we meet at Zoom and ask better questions. Sometimes we name the compost heap and keep going.

If that kind of companionship feels right to you, you can write to me. No form or funnel, just an email and a human. If you feel like reaching out, email me: elina@elinah.studio.

You don’t have to know exactly what you need.

Being real is enough, and I’ll meet you there.