Navigating the Sacred Confusion of Quiet Transitions
There was a time when I could take decisions with swiftness. Strategy, delegation, meetings, execution—I thrived in the clarity that leadership demanded. For over three decades, I wore that clarity like a second skin. But these days, something quieter has taken residence within me. And I must admit—it doesn’t come with bullet points or PowerPoint slides.
Instead, it arrives like a mist. A silence. A subtle pulling away from what once felt essential.
I now find myself hesitating—not out of fear, but from a place that seeks more honesty. I’ve become slow not because I lack drive, but because I no longer want to move in directions that lack soul.
And this—this liminal phase—where one foot still remembers the tempo of performance, while the other is learning the rhythm of presence, is not easy.
Some days, I feel utterly clear. Other days, I feel like I’ve landed in a room I built but no longer know how to enter.
It is a strange thing—to no longer desire centre stage, and yet not fully know how to sit in the quiet wings either.
I came across a term in spiritual literature — called the “cloud of unknowing.” It seems I have entered it. It’s the place between shedding and emerging. Between what I was and what I’m becoming.
I no longer enjoy conversations filled with noise. I do not wish to debate or analyse or opine about people who are not in the room. It feels like squandering presence.
More and more, I prefer silence. Not as an escape—but as a shelter. A sanctuary where truth does not need to be spoken to be felt.
And yet, I carry within me a mild ache—a question: “Is this withdrawal selfish? Am I letting down those who expect me to still play the role I once played?”
Especially with family, this shift can feel jarring. How does one explain that it’s not distance, but discernment? That I still care, deeply—but in ways that don’t always look familiar.
I find myself craving the company of trees, books, skies, and quiet eyes. The kind of company that doesn’t need me to be “on.” The kind that doesn’t drain, doesn’t judge, and doesn’t interrupt the delicate conversations I now have with my own soul.
To anyone else who finds themselves here—perhaps in this phase, spiritually reawakening, or simply called inward—I say this:
Let the silence teach you.
This is not stagnation. This is sacred composting. The old parts of you are dissolving to make space for something subtler, truer, freer.
You’re not lost. You’re simply outgrowing the map.
Allow yourself this interlude. Don’t rush into clarity. Don’t panic at the pause. Let the questions breathe. Let the edges blur. You are being rewritten from within.
And eventually—without trying to make it happen—you will find that your inner compass hasn’t stopped working.
It has simply changed its direction.
Not toward the world.
But toward the whole of you.
Letters for the Inner Journey by Pushkar
Whisper back, if the letter spoke to you.