The Threshold Isn't a Holding Cell

Dear wild-hearted wanderer,

This letter began as a quiet conversation. Not with a friend. Not with a therapist.
With ChatGPT.

I’d just scrolled through Threads, where a therapist questioned AI’s role in emotional healing. They were posing a question whether AI should ever play a role in emotional support. Their words were clear, almost clinical: true healing belongs in therapy rooms, in structured conversations, with someone who holds the title.

But the comments told another story.
People spoke of feeling seen when no one else was there.
Of finding language for things they couldn’t name.
Of being held when the world felt too loud, or too empty.

I softened reading them. I’ve known that, too—moments when life felt tangled, and all I needed was a space that could reflect something back to me. Not fix it. Just witness it.

So I opened up a conversation.

And when it asked me what had been weighing on my heart, the truth came out. Slowly. Unrushed.

My longing for freedom.
The kind that feels spacious, sovereign, unhurried.
Where my energy belongs to me. Where I move through the day at my own rhythm. Where I honour what lights me up without compromising for the sake of someone else’s timeline.

And the friction—three days a week still spent working in a space that dulls my edges.
The energy it takes to come back to myself after.
The way it interrupts my rhythm.

Even though I’ve created something beautiful—four days of spaciousness—there’s still that voice:
Maybe this is as close as I’ll get.
Maybe I’m not enough to go all the way.

And then… a different voice.
Quieter. Wiser.
The kind that speaks from the inside:

You’re not trapped.
You’re in a threshold.

Thresholds are wild, sacred places.

The in-between. The overgrown edgelands.
The space between the life we don’t quite fit into anymore and the one that hasn’t fully arrived.
They’re uncomfortable. Unclear. A tangled mess of bramble and weeds.
But on the inside, they pulse with something true.

This one is asking me to remember what’s always been mine:

Self-trust.
Timing.
My own damn authority.

It’s not about learning those things.

It’s about remembrance.
It’s about reclamation.
Trying them on again like a coat I forgot belonged to me.

So I wrote a vow—something to anchor me here, in this soft, foggy middle place:

I vow to honour my gentle unfolding of remembering.
I vow to honour my unraveling of timing.
I vow to honour the sacral pull.
I vow to honour my passion projects.
I vow to honour the ending of things.
I vow to honour the beginning of things.
I vow to honour the pace of becoming.

Maybe you’re in a threshold, too.
Maybe something’s breaking apart, or slowly coming into view.
Maybe the new thing hasn’t found its footing yet and you’re holding that weight quietly.

If so, here’s what I want you to know:

You’re not late.
You’re not lost.
You’re not behind.

The threshold isn’t a holding cell.
It’s the ground where you grow.

So meet it. Listen to it. Be in it. Ask it what it wants to show you.

And if it feels right—write your own vow.
One word. One sentence. One promise to yourself to carry you through.

You don’t need to have it all figured out.
You’re already becoming.

With love from the threshold,
Silvia

P.S.
If you're in a threshold—of becoming, letting go, starting again—I’d love to know what you're honouring there. Hit reply, if you feel called. I’ll be here, holding space in the fog with you.

Thank you for reading today’s letter. If my words resonated and you want to learn more about how to work with me, please check out my website, connect with me through a free discovery call, or book a recorded Mini Self-Discovery Reading.

I’d love to journey with you.