The Waiting Place: Finding Peace in Life's In-Between Moments
Dr. Seuss knew something about this liminal space when he wrote about "The Waiting Place" in Oh, the Places You'll Go! That peculiar purgatory where you're "waiting for a train to go or a bus to come, or a plane to go or the mail to come." Neither here nor there. Just... waiting.
I know I’m not the only one here.
Maybe you're waiting for test results, a job decision, a baby to come or a relationship to find its footing. Perhaps you're in the space between who you were and who you're becoming, between the life you planned and the one that's unfolding. The waiting place doesn't announce itself with fanfare—it simply arrives, settling over our days like morning fog. For who knows how long, and that’s the point.
The Science of Suspended Time
Neuroscientist Dr. Judson Brewer's research on uncertainty reveals why waiting feels so uncomfortable. Our brains are prediction machines, constantly trying to anticipate what comes next. When we can't predict the future, the anterior cingulate cortex (our brain's "uncertainty detector") fires up, creating that restless, anxious energy we know so well.
But here's what's fascinating: the same neural networks that create anxiety in uncertainty can also cultivate what researchers call "uncertain calm" (a state where we learn to rest in not knowing).
Think about how a seed waits in winter soil. It doesn't thrash against the darkness or demand that spring arrive early. It simply rests in the not-yet, gathering what it needs for eventual growth. Indigenous wisdom traditions have long understood this: the Lakota concept of "wohpe" teaches that there's sacred power in patience, in allowing things to unfold in their own time.
The Mindfulness of Maybe
When we're caught in the waiting place, our minds often ping-pong between past and future. What if I'd made different choices? What if this never happens? Mindfulness offers us a different way to wait. Not as passive endurance, but as active presence.
Dr. Tara Brach calls this "radical acceptance" (not resignation, but a willingness to be fully present with what is, including our own discomfort). When we practice mindfulness in the waiting place, we're not trying to make the waiting easier or shorter. We're learning to inhabit the space between heartbeats, between breaths, between one chapter and the next.
Research from Stanford's Center for Compassion and Altruism shows that mindful waiting actually rewires our relationship with uncertainty. Instead of fighting the unknown, we begin to recognise it as the very ground of possibility.
The Art of Conscious Waiting
Here's what I've learned about waiting with awareness rather than anxiety:
Notice the texture of now. Yes right now, as you read this, what do you notice? The weight of your body in your chair? The sound of your breath? The birdsong? The waiting place isn't empty … it's full of this moment's particular aliveness.
Breathe with the uncertainty. Each inhale is a small act of faith — we trust that the exhale will come, even though we can't control it. Let your breath teach you how to trust the rhythm of not knowing.
Practice the pause. When you feel the urge to check your phone, refresh your email, or mentally rehearse the future, pause. P—a—u—s—e. Can you feel the energy of waiting itself? Not waiting for something, but the actual sensation of being in suspension.
Tend to what's here. The waiting place isn't a void, or a deep dark hole. It's actually a greenhouse. What wants to grow in you during this time? What qualities are you cultivating? Patience, trust, presence, compassion for yourself? The change is happening, the potential is emerging. Let it be.
Welcome the ripening. Some of life's most important transformations happen in the invisible spaces. The caterpillar doesn't know it's becoming a butterfly. The apple doesn't know it's getting sweeter. Trust that something is happening, even when you can't see it.
The Gifts Hidden in the Gap
I wish I could tell you that mindful waiting makes the waiting shorter, but that would be a lie. What it does is something more profound: it transforms waiting from suffering into a sacred practice. The Japanese have a word, "ma," for the pregnant pause, the meaningful emptiness that gives shape to what surrounds it. In music, the rests between notes create the rhythm. In conversation, the pauses allow meaning to settle.
Your waiting place isn't a detour from your life. It's an essential part of the song.
For me, each time I am hauled up in the waiting place, I learn something new, deep, about that particular type of pause, and how I handle it. This time the waiting hadn't just been about getting to the other side. It had been about learning to trust the process, to find peace in the space between question and answer, to discover that I was whole, safe and all was and would be fine, even in the middle of the unknown. I found comfort in the discomfort, just like a deep, long yin stretch.
Coming Home to the In-Between
The waiting place will always be part of the human experience. We'll find ourselves there again and again—in doctor's offices and job interviews, in relationships and goals, in the tender spaces between who we are and who we're becoming.
But we don't have to white-knuckle our way through it. We can learn to inhabit these spaces with grace, to find the sacred in the suspended, to trust that even when we can't see the path forward, we're exactly where we need to be. Here and now.
The waiting place isn't where your life pauses (it's where your life deepens).
What if, instead of waiting for the waiting to end, you allowed yourself to fully arrive in this moment? What if you trusted that the space between heartbeats is just as sacred as the heartbeat itself? And that was enough? Let go and see what happens.
The next time you find yourself in the waiting place, remember: you're not stuck. You’re not lost. You're developing. And like a photograph develops in the darkroom, the most beautiful images emerge not in the flash of the moment, but in the patient, mysterious space between exposure and revelation.
