Rosemary Collier
It took me a long time to find the right words for what I’ve come to call the spaces in between. Those moments when life has clearly shifted, but our emotions haven’t yet caught up.
The answer came to me, fittingly, in an airport.
Walking through Barcelona’s arrivals, I noticed a sign: Passengers in transit. I stopped. Because that’s what I’d been trying to name, that in-between state where the journey has begun, but you haven’t yet arrived. Physically you’re here, but emotionally you’re still waiting at the gate.
That image helped me make sense of something I had lived for years. I had been constantly in transit, between roles, projects, countries, without ever allowing myself to arrive. As long as I was moving, achieving, performing, I felt in control. But I was widening the gap between my external progress and my internal integration.
The illusion of arrival
In my early thirties, I had an MSc from Trinity College Dublin and a global career managing organizational change for blue-chip companies. From the outside, it looked like I had arrived. Inside, I was still catching my breath.
That truth revealed itself quite literally underwater.
Two decades ago, while scuba diving off Ireland’s Aran Islands, I got caught in a cold Atlantic current. I remember the surge of panic as I clung to a rock, oxygen running low, fin loose, my dive partner out of sight. Every instinct screamed to hold on, yet I knew that holding on too tightly might also keep me stuck.
When he finally returned and held me steady long enough to fix my fin, I could move again. The relief was overwhelming. Years later, I realised that moment mirrored much of my professional life: holding on for dear life, managing risk, but unable to release control long enough to move forward.
The inner current
That lesson resurfaced years later at the Tavistock Institute in London, when I read Edgar Allan Poe’s A Descent into the Maelstrom. A sailor survives a violent whirlpool by observing its motion rather than resisting it. That insight struck me deeply.
When we resist transition, we exhaust ourselves. But when we can name it, when we recognise that the turbulence is part of the process, we begin to regain agency.
I had my own whirlpool moment when I experienced a panic attack mid-meeting. On the surface, I was calm and competent. Inside, the current had finally broken through.
That was the beginning of a very different journey, not up the ladder, but inward.
From scaffolding to foundation
For years, my sense of self rested on what I did: the titles, the teams, the constant motion. It was, I see now, a beautifully engineered but fragile house of cards. When one piece fell, the whole structure trembled.
Since then, I’ve rebuilt from the inside out. The foundation is no longer positional but personal. The work I do now, with leaders and teams in transition, is about helping others locate their own centre of gravity when everything external is shifting.
For those who are currently “in transit”
If you find yourself between phases, a role, a relationship, an identity, try this short reflection practice:
- Name your gate. What are you leaving, and what are you approaching? Write both down. Naming helps you see the journey as real, not abstract.
- Notice the lag. Where are your emotions still “waiting for a connecting flight”? No judgment, just awareness.
- Create a holding space. This could be a walk, a journal, or a trusted conversation partner. It’s your emotional lounge, where integration happens.
- Breathe before boarding. Before you take the next leap, ask: Am I moving because I’m ready, or because stillness feels unbearable?
Transitions are not interruptions in our lives; they are our lives. The aim isn’t to eliminate turbulence, but to learn how to travel through it, whole, awake, and intact.