Episode 4 — The Long Middle

An episode for the long middle — the stretches of time when nothing seems to change.

In this reflection, we gently explore what it’s like to remain present in the space between the first wave of pain and whatever may come next. Together we notice the quiet vulnerability of carrying something longer than we hoped, and the possibility of staying without demanding clarity, relief, or immediate resolution.

More episodes, reflections, and information about my counseling practice can be found at
desertstreams126.com/podcast

I’m glad you’re here.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:01

Hi, I'm so glad you're here. Before we begin, I want you to know that you're not alone here. This isn't a place to fix yourself. It's a place to sit and be met where you are. There's hope. Even if you can't feel it right now. The kind that comes from not having to carry this by yourself. I'd like to invite you to take a moment to arrive. However you're arriving. If you're seated, feel the support beneath you. If you're standing, notice the ground holding your weight. If you're moving, just notice that you're moving. Nothing needs to change for you to be here. You might be listening to this in a single moment. A pause between things. A small pocket of quiet you didn't plan for. Or you might be listening from inside something that's been going on longer than you expected. Not a crisis or an emergency. Just a stretch of time where nothing has really shifted and you're still here. This moment matters. And sometimes this moment isn't just a moment. Sometimes it's a part of something that takes time. There's nothing you need to do with that. Nothing to figure out. We're just noticing it together. In the last episode, we stayed close to the first decision to remain. That small turning where you don't immediately leave yourself, where you don't outrun what you're feeling, and you don't tighten into solutions. Where you just stay a little longer. And sometimes when we do that, we find something surprising. Not necessarily relief or even clarity or breakthrough. Sometimes we just find time. The long middle. There's a particular kind of vulnerability that shows up here. At first, pain often arrives loudly. It announces itself. But this kind of vulnerability is quieter. It shows up after time has passed. When you realize you're still here and what you're carrying hasn't changed. Because a lot of us, maybe without ever saying it out loud, carry an expectation that if we stay, something will shift. If I sit with it long enough, surely I'll feel better. If I name it clarity clearly, it will loosen. If I pray the right way, the weight will lift. If I'm honest, if I'm brave, if I do the work. And sometimes it doesn't. Not forever. But often longer than we hoped, longer than we planned for, and long enough that questions start to form. This is often when the mind gets busy. It starts reviewing the whole experience. Am I doing this wrong? Is this not working? Why am I still here? What does it mean that nothing has changed? And underneath those questions is usually something even more tender. I stayed and it didn't pay off. That can feel discouraging or embarrassing or defeating. Especially if you've been told explicitly or implicitly that staying should lead to clarity or peace or some kind of progress. If you're listening from inside that kind of stretch, I want to say this clearly. That's not what I mean. I mean something simpler. You're allowed to be here without demanding an outcome. Just for a moment, just right now. See if you can notice what it's like to be you. Not the story of you, not what comes next, not what you should be doing. Just this, just here, right now. You might notice tension or heaviness, fatigue, or restlessness. You might notice very little. That's okay too. If it helps, you can name one thing quietly to yourself. I feel tight or I feel foggy. I feel tender. I feel blank. I feel like leaving. No need to correct it. And if your mind immediately responds by judging, analyzing, fixing, you don't need to stop that either. Just notice, oh, there's that part of me that wants out. Not just grief over what was lost, but grief over the fact that time is passing and you're still carrying it. Grief over the slowness, over the ordinary days that keep coming. Or the lack of resolution. Because it's hard to name, we often turn inward. If I can make this my fault, maybe I can control it. That's such a human move. And it makes sense. But some things don't respond to effort. Some things respond to gentleness, to companionship, to staying. So if you're in the middle and it feels slow or unimpressive or pointless, maybe the invitation isn't to try harder. Maybe it's to stay without demanding proof. To stay without requiring immediate relief. To stay without turning this into a test. Because the fact that you're still here, still listening, still breathing, still showing up, that matters. Even if nothing has resolved, even if you don't feel strong, even if you don't feel spiritual, even if the only thing you can say is, I'm still here. If God feels close right now, you can let that be true. If God feels distant or quiet or hard to reach, you can let that be true too. You don't have to manufacture closeness to justify this moment. Sometimes the most honest prayer is simply, here I am. Or I don't know what to do. And if prayer feels unavailable, let this be a place where that's allowed. Let this be a place where you don't have to perform presence. We'll end gently, not with a takeaway or a solution. Just permission. If this was only a moment for you today, thank you for giving yourself that moment. And if this is a season, if you're listening from inside something that takes time, hear this clearly. You're in the long middle. And you don't have to make it impressive. You don't have to make it useful. You can simply just be. And when you're ready, return to your day in whatever way you can.