Navigating Transitions and
the Slow Art of Becoming
It seems like just when I’m getting the hang of things—when I’ve built a routine that feels rhythmic and consistent—the season starts to change again. Literally.
It’s like when my body finally makes peace with waking up to bright skies at 6:00 AM, Daylight Savings ends, the days shorten, and the return of dark mornings at 6:00 AM begin again. So I find myself adjusting my habits again—surrendering the comfort of what was for whatever is coming next.
The Predictability of
Disruption and Change
I like routine. I like the predictability of certain cycles and the ability to build rituals that offer systematic structure to my days. Within a gratifyingly familiar pace, I don’t mind the occasional hiccup or minor disruption. Rain, excessive heat, cold—these are variables I can plan for. A forecast that calls for an umbrella or checking the pollen count doesn’t send my whole life into chaos.
But bigger changes—especially the ones that feel like energetic body slams wrapped in a slow drip of discomfort—hit differently. Those are the ones I find harder to navigate.
What Seasonal Allergies Teach Me About the Middle
Take seasonal allergies, for example. I’ve lived in subtropical, swampy, humidity-heavy places all my life. I know that when seasons change, allergy flares are coming. And yet, every year, without fail, there’s at least one week that absolutely floors me before I recalibrate. Congestion, fatigue, nasal rinses—it’s a familiar loop.
And every year, I fall down, rest, and slowly get back up again.
This surrender to the “tear down and rebuild” process is the unavoidable nature of what it feels like to be in the thick of it. And I’ve come to accept that this is the middle. There’s no way around it—only through it.
The middle is inevitable. It often feels uncertain—even when you know the precise distance of the jump ahead. It’s like being suspended mid-air between the starting line and the finish. It’s not quite crisis, but it’s not clarity either.
And yet, you have to move through it. Patiently.
Cultivating Grit (and Grace)
Lately, I’ve been in one of those unavoidable “middle seasons” of life. I would absolutely describe it as feeling stuck—unsure of how to create momentum to keep moving forward. But in time, I’ve started to accept that, like Victor Hugo wrote in Les Misérables:
“Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.”
To me, this quote represents the inevitability of seasonal shifts and the grace available to us during difficult transitions. Being in the middle can feel relentless, like treading water in the middle of the ocean. The real fear isn’t drowning—it’s not knowing how far the land is, or whether you’ve conserved enough stamina to reach it.
What Grit Really Means
To encourage myself, I picked up Angela Duckworth’s book Grit, where she studies what makes people persist through hardship. One part follows cadets at West Point through “Beast”—a seven-week intensive boot camp. What she found wasn’t surprising, but deeply affirming: the ones who finished weren’t necessarily the smartest or strongest—they were the ones who had decided they were going to finish, no matter what.
They were gritty.
They kept showing up. Full stop.
They believed that if they kept moving forward, they’d eventually reach the end.
Duckworth frequently quotes the Japanese proverb:
“Fall down seven, get up eight.”
It also reminds me of the final part of the poem To James by Frank Horne:
Dig your starting holes
deep and firm
lurch out of them
into the straightaway
with all the power
that is in you……and finish
with an ecstatic burst
that carries you
hurtling
through the tape
to victory…
This poem reminds me that grit isn’t about brute force—it’s about finishing well. With the wherewithal to maintain focused intention, presence, and heart.
Patience for Pearls
Thinking about grit made me think about pearls—yes, actual pearls, like the ones formed in oysters. They’re made from grit, too.
Here’s how it works: an irritant, often a grain of sand or another intruding material, gets inside an oyster. In response, the oyster slowly coats it with a substance called nacre, layer by layer, until something luminous is formed.
But here’s the part that struck me most: the oyster can only secrete nacre at a pace that doesn’t harm itself.
This the the pearl of wisdom here:
Development doesn’t have to feel fast to be real.
Not all work requires maxed out HIIT style aggression to be effective.
Sometimes, it just requires staying.
Being still. Listening. Micro-adjusting to remaining aligned.
So, no—grittiness isn’t synonymous with speed. It’s a slow, deliberate process that requires mindful effort and self-preservation.
Wisdom, transformation, adaptation—these are developed with time, like a good ferment. And the pace must be sustainable. Like and oyster developing a pearl, push too hard, and the thing meant to develop you may start to break you instead.
You can’t rush yourself to grit.
You have cultivate it.
Slowly. Intentionally.
One luminous layer at a time.
The Art of Transitions
Another metaphor that helps me appreciate the magic of being in the middle is musical composition.
If you’ve ever heard a great DJ set, you know it’s not just the song choices that matter—it’s the transitions between them.
A weak transition can kill the vibe.
But a great one? It elevates the whole experience.
Some DJs are masters at transitioning between BPM, genres, and moods—guiding the crowd through energy shifts so smoothly that no one even notices the change until they’re already dancing to it.
That’s the kind of finesse I want in my own life.
To move through transitions with flow, not friction.
To shift with rhythm, not panic.
And yes—it takes practice.
Practicing the Middle
I used to think endurance was something you either had or didn’t—like grit was a mystical quality you were born with. But as Duckworth points out, grit is a skill. And like any skill, it’s something you practice, tend to, and grow over time.
In fact, she encourages parents to help kids develop grit by choosing one long-term activity—like a sport, musical instrument, or language—to stick with. Not because they have to love it, but because finishing teaches fortitude.
In her house, her kids are allowed to switch interests—but only after they’ve completed a milestone like a recital or a season. The idea is to build the muscle memory of perseverance: you finish what you start.
What I’m Learning (Again and Again)
So here’s what I’m learning in this season:
✔️ The end will come, even if its timing is unknown.
✔️ The discomfort is real, but so is the patience it develops.
✔️ Grit is not force; it’s quiet, steady resilience.
✔️ Beautiful things—like pearls—take time and care to form.
✔️ Transitions are art forms, and they deserve our attention and grace.
✔️ Being in community makes navigating the middle easier.
Final Reflection
The middle is unglamorous.
It’s not always Instagram-worthy.
But it’s where the good stuff happens.
It’s where grit is born, and where grace is cultivated.
Here’s to celebrating opportunities to grow grittier, to honoring the in-between and becoming the kind of person who moves through the middle well—not perfectly, but with patience, rhythm, and consistency.
References:
- Ending Quote of Les Miserable Explained
- Angela Duckworth TEDTalk
- Audio Recording: To James by Frank Horne
(P.S. I receive no affiliate commission from these links, they are here purely for your enjoyment and reference).
Bonus Track
Pause. Breathe. You’re building something beautiful.
- What “gritty” thing are you slowly building or becoming right now?
- Can you recall a time when you persevered through something difficult? What helped you stay the course?
- How are you offering yourself grace in this season?
💬 I’d love to hear your responses.
Reply below, send me a message or tag me. @rosnolia.
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