By Ross Hendrickson
There is something strange about summer. It invites rest but often brings disruption. School lets out. Work schedules shift. Kids are home more, or maybe they leave for the first time. Families travel. Expectations change. Structure melts under the heat, and what’s left is not always the vacation feeling we imagined. Instead, we find ourselves adjusting, stretching, and sometimes stumbling through transitions we didn’t quite plan for.
This summer, our family experienced a shift that caught me off guard. One of the kids moved out. It wasn’t a dramatic movie scene. No long speeches. No weepy goodbyes. Just a quiet moment in an apartment parking lot, wondering if we packed enough toilet paper. The new chapter arrived in subtle ways. An empty chair at dinner. Fewer interruptions during the day. A feeling I couldn’t name that lingered in the house like leftover music.
At home, things felt different. The younger sibling noticed it too. Conversations felt quieter. Routines seemed off. I found myself wondering if I had done enough or said enough before the change became real. And yes, I cleaned. A lot. Which, in my world, usually means something deeper is stirring.
We often speak of transitions as if they can be scheduled and neatly checked off. But they rarely play out that way. They are messy. Emotional. Disorienting. They feel like walking through fog with a suitcase full of emotions you didn’t pack on purpose.
In my work as a therapist, I sit with people navigating all kinds of transitions. Marriage changes. Career shifts. Kids growing up. Health concerns. Identity questions. Some of these changes are chosen. Others arrive uninvited. What they share is the discomfort of losing an old rhythm before a new one has settled in. That middle space can feel aimless. But it’s also sacred.
It is in this space that real questions rise to the surface. Who am I now? What still matters to me? What am I being asked to release? What am I being invited to receive?
Summer often carries the expectation of rest and ease. But for many people, it surfaces emotions that have been buried under routine. Without the structure of the school year or the busyness of a packed calendar, things begin to emerge. Parents find themselves unsure how to connect with children who are changing faster than they can keep up. Couples face more time together than they anticipated and more silence than they’re used to. Even those who live alone find that quiet seasons stir reflection.
One summer years ago, we were barely getting by. The air conditioner barely worked. Money was tight. Time was stretched. And yet, it remains one of my favorite seasons. We had no choice but to be together. We got creative. We had honest conversations. We learned that joy is not about having more. It is about being present.
I think of that now when life feels inconvenient. Growth does not usually arrive in tidy packages. It shows up in disruption. In discomfort. In the pause that makes space for something new to form.
There’s another thing about summer I always forget until it hits me. It is the season between basketball and football. For someone who enjoys tracking stats and fantasy leagues, that stretch of time matters. There is no March Madness. No playoffs. No draft drama. Baseball is there, but it doesn’t fill the same emotional space.
For me, summer is the emotional equivalent of a bye week. There is no scoreboard. No wins to celebrate. No obvious progress to measure. Just long days, slow moments, and open space.
And yet, that is often where the most meaningful growth happens. When you are not performing, not tracking progress, not rushing from one thing to the next. Just showing up. Paying attention. Noticing what your life is saying underneath the noise.
Therapy is like that too. No one hands out trophies for naming your grief or practicing emotional regulation. There are no fantasy points for repairing trust or learning how to pause before reacting. But this work matters. And it often happens in seasons that feel unproductive from the outside.
In the slower rhythm of summer, we often begin to notice things we missed. That our patience is thinner than we thought. That our role in the family no longer fits the way it used to. That our relationships need more attention than we’ve given them.
Sometimes clients will say, “Things are fine, but I still feel off.” I hear that often in July. My response is usually, “Let’s get curious about what’s underneath the fine.” Because fine is not the goal. Growth is. Connection is. Joy is. Fine is often what we settle for when we stop paying attention.
This is why the in-between matters. It gives us room to notice. It creates space for reflection. It opens the door for clarity to emerge.
If you are navigating a transition of your own, here are a few small but powerful practices I’ve seen help both clients and myself:
1. Name what’s happening.
Put words to it. This is a transition. You are not failing. You are shifting.
2. Let go of the idea of “normal.”
If this season feels different, that’s okay. Sometimes growth begins when our usual patterns are interrupted.
3. Create micro-rhythms.
A ten-minute walk. A shared mealtime. A quiet morning pause. These small practices offer emotional grounding when larger routines fall away.
4. Don’t mislabel your emotions.
Feeling sad, restless, or uncertain does not mean something is wrong. It may simply mean something is moving.
5. Ask better questions.
Rather than asking, “When will this feel better?” try asking, “What is this season inviting me to learn?” or “What do I need right now to support myself and those I love?”
One of the hardest parts of transition is resisting the urge to move through it too quickly. We want answers. Closure. A sense that we’re back on track. But the truth is, most transformation does not happen in big dramatic moments. It happens slowly. Quietly. Often when we least expect it.
When clients ask how long something will take, I often say, “As long as it needs to.” That’s not a therapy trick. That’s a truth I’ve learned in my own life. Some transitions take weeks. Others take years. The most important part is not rushing. It is staying present.
You don’t need a master plan. You just need to keep noticing. Keep adjusting. Keep showing up. Keep returning to what matters most. Maybe that is connection. Maybe it is rest. Maybe it is rediscovering your voice in a season where it’s gone quiet.
If you find yourself in the middle of a transition this summer, I hope you will remember this. There is no right way to do it. You don’t have to be graceful. You don’t have to pretend it’s easier than it is. You simply need to stay open. Stay curious. Stay human.
Transitions are not detours from life. They are part of life. They teach us how to hold what is precious without gripping it too tightly. They help us learn to say goodbye while staying whole. They remind us that even the quiet chapters belong in the story.
Summer will return. So will structure. So will clarity. But for now, give yourself permission to be in the in-between. It is doing more for you than you think.
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