The Gifts of the In-Between: Looking Back, Looking Ahead, Letting Go
Hey friend.
Welcome back to Running to Myself. I’m your host, Trisha Stanton, and today… we’re stepping into one of the strangest, quietest pockets of the year.
The week between Christmas and New Year’s.
You know the one.
The week where time gets a little wobbly — where Wednesday feels like Monday, but also maybe Saturday.
The week where the living room still smells faintly of pine or cinnamon, but the wrapping paper has settled and the noise has softened.
The week where the days stretch out like a long exhale — cozy for some, and for others, a little too quiet.
It’s the week where the calendar feels blurry.
Where leftovers fill the fridge and the glow from the tree is still hanging on, even if the magic feels a bit dimmer.
A week that can feel like slipping into a warm blanket… or settling into an empty room.
Both are valid.
For many people, it’s the one week a year with no rules.
No real structure.
No one asking for anything.
Just wide-open space — the kind that can feel deeply comforting or strangely uncomfortable.
And wherever you fall this year on that wide spectrum, I want you to hear this:
You’re not alone.
I’ve lived this in-between week in every possible version.
Years where it felt like a gift I couldn’t believe I got to open.
Years where it felt heavy, like I was carrying twelve months of emotion all at once.
Years filled with noise and people and laughter and games around the kitchen table.
Years where the quiet felt peaceful, grounding, almost sacred.
And years where that very same quiet felt hollow, reminding me of what had shifted or who wasn’t there.
There have been years when I wanted to stretch the festivities as far as they would go…
And years when I packed everything away early, craving the relief of a cleared-out space and a little more room to breathe.
And now, being a few years out of the classroom, this week holds a different energy.
There’s no countdown.
No pressure to maximize the break before heading back into work mode.
No internal dialogue telling me not to “waste” the time.
It feels softer now.
Lighter.
More like an invitation than an obligation.
I let myself enjoy it — whether that means sinking into rest, or slowly, gently giving January a head start.
Sometimes both in the very same day.
But no matter how I spend it…
I always, always find myself reflecting.
There’s something about these in-between days that invites that kind of softness.
A natural pause.
A quiet moment where the year behind us and the year ahead seem to hold hands for a minute.
And I find myself asking the same questions every time.
What were the best parts of this year?
What am I grateful that I experienced?
What do I want to carry with me into the new one?
And… what am I ready to leave behind?
And this year, more than just figuratively, that question showed up in a very literal place.
In my Christmas ornaments.
I used to decorate every room.
Trees everywhere.
Sparkle and color on every surface.
When we downsized to move to San Antonio, I let most of it go.
I kept only what I loved.
Only what fit.
Only what made sense in this new season of life.
It was the right thing to do… but emotionally, it was harder than I expected.
Fast forward almost a decade, and here I am again — sorting through boxes and asking myself what still fits.
What still brings joy.
What still feels like “us.”
I have a couple of totes labeled “Ask the kids if they want these.”
These are the ornaments that survived the move, the ones I enjoyed for years, the ones that mattered to me at one time.
But now… they don’t quite belong in the way they used to. They didn’t make the cut to be on the tree this year.
Offering them to my kids feels easy.
It’s letting them go without really letting them go.
They stay in the family.
They stay in the story.
But what about the ones no one chooses?
The ones that will actually have to leave my hands and not come back?
That’s where the real letting go happens.
And I felt it. I even feel it now as I talk about it.
That little tug at the heart.
And I found myself wondering…
Why is this so hard?
Why does my chest tighten just a little when I hold an ornament that hasn’t seen a tree in years?
These are just Christmas ornaments.
Little objects made of glass and felt and glitter — nothing with real weight, nothing with real power.
And yet… the letting go feels tender.
It taps something deeper.
Why does releasing these tiny objects carry so much meaning?
Maybe you’ve felt this too.
Not just with decorations, but with the quiet things we outgrow over time.
The roles we used to play without thinking.
The responsibilities we carried because we once believed we had to.
The places where we used to fit comfortably.
The routines that used to feel grounding but now feel tight around the edges.
The identities we wore so long they started to feel permanent.
The dreams we once held close but now barely recognize.
Letting go is rarely about the item in our hands.
It’s about who we were when that item mattered.
It’s the version of ourselves who lived inside that season.
The memories wrapped around it — the year we bought it, the person we were becoming, the children who hung it crookedly on the tree.
It’s the meaning we assigned to it long before we realized meaning could shift.
Sometimes we’re not holding on to the object.
We’re holding on to the moment.
The identity.
The familiar feeling of who we used to be.
And releasing it — even something so small — can feel like losing a tiny piece of ourselves.
But here’s the deeper truth I’ve learned through these in-between weeks of the year:
Letting go is not losing.
It’s clearing.
It’s creating room.
It’s opening a window to the next season of our lives.
The week between Christmas and New Year’s is such a perfect metaphor for this.
It’s a stretch of days that doesn’t belong fully to one year or the other.
A place where things feel suspended.
A hallway between two chapters.
A threshold where the air feels different, not because anything drastic has happened, but because everything is about to.
It’s a gentle invitation to look around your life and ask — what still fits?
What still feels true?
What still feels like you?
And just as importantly… what feels heavy?
What feels forced?
What feels like it belongs to an earlier version of you — one you can love and honor, but no longer need to carry?
So if you find yourself sorting, decluttering, reorganizing, or simply staring into space with a feeling you can’t quite name — I want you to know you’re right on time.
You are not behind.
You are not doing the week wrong.
You’re simply in the in-between, and the in-between is sacred.
Here’s your gentle invitation for today:
Choose one thing — physical, emotional, or mental — and ask yourself
Does this still belong in the life I am building?
Do I love it… or am I keeping it because it feels familiar?
Does it support where I’m going… or simply remind me of where I’ve been?
And if it’s time to let go, let the release be soft.
Let it be slow.
Let it be loving.
A quiet honoring of who you were, and a quiet welcome to who you’re becoming.
As we walk toward a new year together, I hope this week gives you a little breathing room.
A moment to recognize what was beautiful.
A moment to acknowledge what hurt.
A moment to feel grateful for the you who kept going.
A moment to feel proud — even if you’re still figuring things out.
I’m grateful you’re here.
I’m grateful we get to stand at this threshold side by side.
And I’m cheering for all the unseen work you’re doing — the small, courageous choices that shape your whole life.
Take care, friend.
And whatever this week looks like for you… may it be gentle.
