I am writing to you mid-flight — between Jakarta and Melbourne. In between Indonesia and Australia. In between Saturday and Sunday — after a meal.
In between seats 65F and 65D (65D promptly fell asleep the minute we got it, and I should have done the same, but I just had a meal that’s in between supper and breakfast, and it got me thinking of my in-between life.
Until recently, I divide my latest life between ignorant pre-Covid-bliss and surviving post-covid-languish. But after spending almost two months in between the hotel quarantine and my parent’s home, I experienced another shift in life.
Though I generally embrace the life shift, this feels particularly uneasy. Like I managed to pack previously suppressed emotional baggage in between shedding my old self.
I am literally in between my old life and my new life. Between the life I was blessed with and the life I chose for myself. In between two powerhouses of my life.
In between cultures.
Between home-cooked meals and cooking my own meals. In between Gojek and UberEats.
Maybe I am destined to live an in-between life. Perhaps we are all currently living in between in-betweens.
Life is, after all, an in-between.
