What Happens in the Hallway

If you’ve been following along with my story, you for sure know I struggle with taking on too much.

Whether it’s been healing from physical injuries, burnout, or getting over a heartbreak.

One thing I’ve been learning lately is how to deal with the empty space. When the first break is made, all you can feel is the pain of separation—the pain of what just happened, the despair of expectations gone sideways.

And then we cry. We dwell in a space of grieving what happened. Even when the initial pain has faded, the emotional pain exists and persists.

But what happens when the grieving starts to feel like a record on repeat? It still hurts, but less intensely now. You begin to look forward.

If you’re anything like me, I love looking forward. I love daydreaming about what’s next. I dream about playing soccer again, having fun with friends, being back in the in-crowd, or in the next loving and exciting relationship. I begin to envision what everything will look like when things are “right” again.

And I love this about me. I love that I’m an optimist. I believe there are better things ahead than the things we leave behind.

But what happens when you feel like the destiny ahead of you isn’t coming fast enough? I can be quick to make new plans—to throw myself into something new if the thing I want doesn’t come soon enough.

A great example of this is in rehab. Yes, I’m doing physical therapy, but I also search for everything and anything I can do while I’m healing—long walks, swimming, biking. All good things. But I tend to push to the limit, just until my body reminds me: No, Meredith. We’re not ready to work out every day. We’re tired. We need rest.

This past week, I tried running again. I did a jog-walk, alternating every 30 seconds to a minute. I was amazed to wake up the next morning with no pain.

The following day, after a long day of work, I had this angst—built-up tension I couldn’t shake. More than anything, I wanted to go for a run. So I did. I ran for 17 minutes straight and felt amazing.

What didn’t feel amazing was my hip the next day. And the next day. And the next.

I’m now in pain again, having to slow everything down and reset.

And here’s what I’m realizing—healing always includes a hallway.

Whether it’s athletics or life, I get anxious. I get nervous that in the space of healing, I’m missing out. In the season of waiting, I feel more pain from not having what I see in front of me than from what’s behind me.

So when the waiting feels endless, I go for the quick hit of adrenaline. I go for the run, the text from the boy, the next project or task at work—just to feel something. Anything. Other than the ache of dreams unfulfilled.

When people say the Israelites lapped the desert, missing their off-ramp to the Promised Land—I feel that. I feel like I have access to that same Promised Land, but it requires such diligence. It requires wholehearted devotion, even in the waiting.

I spoke with a friend about this recently. I was describing how I feel like God has been calling me to things—finally! After years of silence and wandering, I feel like God is calling me to something of purpose and significance. And though I’ve made baby steps in that direction, the vision isn’t here yet. It isn’t coming as fast or in the way I thought it would, and I’m in a weird space.

She immediately told me: I’m in the metaphorical hallway of my life. I’m in the in-between space. I’m no longer in the room I left, but I’m still far off from the room I want to be entering.

Hallways. Hallways in my life feel so long. So confusing. Why does it feel like we always find ourselves the most lost in buildings in the hallways? Whether it’s the connection to airport terminals, hotel corridors, or apartments—I always find myself thinking: All these walls and doors look the same. Am I headed in the right direction? I have no idea if I’m walking the right way.

I feel like there’s a silence in hallways that makes me go crazy. An absence of noise and people. You’re left to wander the hallway in silence, hoping you’re headed in the right direction.

That’s where I am right now.

I’m tempted to knock on doors and enter any one of them just to break the silence. But in the end, I have to continue my journey—even if it’s long and slow and lonely.

If you’re in the hallway of your life too, you’re not alone. I’m walking a parallel hallway with you.

One thing I want to leave you with: Recovery always has a hallway period, whether short or long. But there is healing in the hallway. There is hope in the hallway—for a new tomorrow, a new destination.

Today, I am surrendering to the process. I’m surrendering adrenaline rushes for the pain of silence and loneliness. I’m surrendering my dreams and hopes and saying yes to whatever the Lord has for me in this hallway.

Because I know this isn’t the first hallway I’ve walked through—and it surely won’t be the last. But I want this hallway to be different. I want to find joy and peace in the waiting—not the pain of pursuing exhaustion just because I can’t stand the ache of uncertainty.

So if you’re in your own hallway right now—restless, confused, craving clarity—I want you to know: you’re not alone. There’s healing here. Let’s choose to stay, together.

Join me in this journey.And hold me accountable when I try knocking on doors I know aren’t my destination.

Love you.