Between the known and the unknown, there is a doorway.
It doesn’t always look like a grand arch or a shining gate — sometimes it’s just the ordinary door you pass through every day.

Pause there. Hand on the handle.
Breathe. Whisper your intention before you cross.
Let the crossing itself become ritual.

I’m drawn to thresholds right now because everything in my life has changed. Some of it by choice, much of it by loss. Loss shapes us, sometimes brutally, and transforms us in ways we don’t always ask for.

The roles I once fit into no longer suit me. The people I thought would always be there have quietly moved on. Some simply couldn’t show up when the times turned hard. Transitional times have a way of sifting people: many take the easy route, stepping away from discomfort, leaving you standing at the edge alone.

If you’ve built anything from scratch — a business, a practice, a dream — you know this truth. Entrepreneurship asks for sacrifice. It asks you to walk alone for long stretches, to keep moving even when others don’t understand. You are supposed to feel the loneliness, because not everyone makes it through the thresholds. Not everyone is willing to.

It’s the same with illness, whether your own or supporting someone you love. People cannot always relate to that path, because it’s uncomfortable, confronting. But the path is not for them. It’s yours. And it demands that you don’t shrink back from the hard edges, but walk them with courage.

The work, then, is not to lament who didn’t show up, but to reach beyond — to find the rare ones who will walk with you, who carry the same fire, who are carving their own way instead of following someone else’s map.

A threshold is not a place to fear. Fear makes us feel small, staring up at the height of the mountain and thinking we don’t belong there. But if you stand long enough in the morning light, you’ll see: smallness is only the measure of scale, not of worth. The view is for you, uniquely, the bitterness and the sweetness balanced just so.

Thresholds are not punishments. They are invitations. And this one, here and now, is mine. Perhaps yours too.

Ritual Invitation:
Tonight, find a doorway in your own home.
Pause before you step through. Place your hand on the handle. Whisper one intention — something you are ready to begin, something you are ready to walk toward. Then cross the threshold slowly, as if it were sacred ground.

Your Turn:
I would love to hear your story.
What threshold are you standing before?
What is the beginning you are yearning for?

Share in a few sentences below — your words may be the light that helps another step through.