The Sacred In-Between - 5 Lessons from the Threshold of Transformation

By Anelly Aya
The light at dusk possesses a singular, fading categoricalness. It is the hour of the "interim," where the world seems to hold its breath between the clarity of day and the mystery of night. It is in this silence that we often encounter the "Threshold and Transition" - not merely as a phase to be endured, but as a psychological and spiritual destination. While our modern ego, obsessed with the "doing" and the "planning," recoils in terror from the unknown, the soul finds itself inexplicably drawn to it. We fear the dark, yet the unknown is what most strongly attracts the deepest parts of our being. This is the paradox of the threshold: to be "lost" within it is not a failure of direction, but a homecoming to the soul. The Corridor as a Sacred Space To enter a transition is to step into a psychological desert. It is a liminal space where the old structures of life have ceased to function, yet the new life has not yet taken a recognizable...
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An intimate journal - a woman's perspective

By Anelly Aya

Outside, it is still gray. The coffee in my mug is growing cold, while I simply sit on the windowsill and listen to the city slowly waking up. Years ago, at this hour, I would already be replaying yesterday's conversations in my head. Who said what, why they looked at me that way, where I made a mistake.

All my life I have been hearing the same thing: "You take things too personally," "Toughen up a bit," "You are too sensitive." When you're a child and hear this constantly, you slowly start to believe you were born without skin. Psychotherapy taught me something very simple: when you're little and there is no one to help you contain your big emotions, you tuck them directly into your body. And you are left with the feeling that you are too small for this big, dangerous, and noisy world.

I asked myself the same questions for years. Why does someone else's criticism keep me awake for days? Why, after an hour among people, do I need to lock myself in a dark room for an entire evening? Why does someone else's anger tie a knot in my stomach, as if I am to blame for it?

The truth is, this is not an illness. Nor is it some badge of honor or a special gift that makes me better or more spiritual than others. It is simply the way my nervous system is wired. I just hear and see things a touch louder. Like a radio tuned to a higher frequency.

My hardest battle has always been with my body. For years, I hated it for betraying me. The headache that ruins my plans. The knot in my stomach before a meeting. The fatigue that arrives without warning. I viewed my body as an enemy sabotaging my life. But it was simply trying to tell me: "Stop. It's overflowing." The body doesn't hate you. It just has no other way of telling you that you've pushed too far. And no, that doesn't mean ignoring your physical symptoms thinking everything is "psychosomatic." If something hurts, you go to a doctor. You take care of yourself with grounded, evidence-based medicine. The difference is that you stop fearing every little twinge and making up catastrophe scenarios in your head.

There is also something quiet, almost spiritual in all this openness. When you stop fighting your sensitivity, it stops being panic and becomes silence. In that silence where you can finally hear something larger than your own fear. A sensitive person can be devastated by a harsh word, but can also weep at the beauty of a song or the way the morning light falls across the table. It is a prayer without words. The invisible presence in the ordinary.

To survive, however, you need boundaries. Without boundaries, empathy is just slow suicide. For a long time, I thought saying "no" meant I was a bad or disrespectful person. I thought I was obligated to absorb other people's pain, drama, and chaos just to keep the peace. I am not. You can love someone and still tell them: "I love you, but I will not allow this." You can understand why someone is scared or angry without becoming their trash can. That isn't coldness. It is simply the desire to stay alive.

Now I am learning to live differently. If I need a slow morning - I give it to myself. If a gathering is too noisy - I leave without apologizing. If my body tells me it has no energy - I lie down. These are not indulgences. This is my structure.

I don't need to become tougher. I just need to be a little wiser. Not to close myself off from the world, but to choose what I let inside.

And perhaps the greatest gift of this entire journey is that I have finally stopped apologizing for existing this way. For breathing deeper. For feeling more. I am not broken. I am simply a human being who feels the world a little closer to her skin.

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