There are seasons in life when action is everything. When you make the calls, gather the information, consult those who are smarter than you, and pour your energy into doing everything you possibly can. And then, there’s the moment that follows—the shift from doing to waiting.

That’s where I am now.

It’s not that everything has been done. But everything I could do, up to now, has been. The rest is out of my hands. I’ve moved the pieces I can move. I’ve spoken the truth I know. I’ve taken every step I was able to take. And now… I wait.

Waiting is not passive. It’s not quiet or peaceful. It’s a loud, aching kind of stillness. It’s pacing the same ground every day with nothing new in sight. It’s holding your breath and hoping that someone, somewhere, is paying attention.

And through it all, there is time.

Time is what makes waiting so painful. It feels like it’s slipping through my fingers, day by day, moment by moment. Time is what I’m grieving. The time I’m missing. The moments I can’t get back. The milestones that pass without me there to witness them. The knowing that things are happening, and I’m not part of them.

At the same time, time is what I’m stuck inside of. It stretches long, slow, uncertain. I wake up hoping for a shift, for a message, for an answer. And by the end of the day, I’ve circled back to the same place I started—with no resolution, but still holding on.

And yet, despite all of that, I still look to time with hope. Because even though it has taken, time also gives. It creates space for healing. For change. For truth to rise. For reunions to one day unfold. I hold on to the belief that something is still coming, even if I don’t know when.

So this space between what was and what will be—this waiting—it’s not empty. It’s where my love lives. It’s where my hope endures. It’s where I keep showing up, even when nothing around me is changing.

If you’re here too—waiting, wondering, aching—I see you. This space is hard, but it’s not without meaning. And you are not alone in it.