The Bells You Can’t Unring: On Thresholds, Quiet Awakenings, and the Moments That Change Everything

There are moments in life that change us—subtly or irrevocably.

Some arrive as earthquakes: a loss, a betrayal, a diagnosis, a departure. Others arrive disguised as invitations: a new project, a romance, a place that draws us into its gravity.

And then there are those that arrive like a whisper in the dark. A flicker of knowing. A tremor in the gut. A truth you didn't want to hear but now can't ignore.

These are the bells you can’t unring.

They echo through you, not always with clarity, but with conviction. And once you’ve heard them, your life is no longer what it was—even if, for a while, it all still looks the same.

I find myself in such a moment now.

After writing my last blog, I felt something move in me. Not a judgment. Not a clear new path. But something unsteady and quiet—like a soul stepping forward inside me, placing her hand on mine and saying, “Is this really what you want to be doing?”

Not just this piece of work, but the structure, the system, the scaffolding I’ve built my life upon. The pace. The expectations. The roles. The image of who I’ve been trying to be, and the rules I’ve been playing by—some inherited, some chosen, some unconsciously adopted to survive in a world that rewards performance over presence.

This is the place between.

Not the breakdown, not the breakthrough—but the threshold. The liminal space where something inside you is shifting, but the world hasn’t caught up yet. You are neither where you were, nor yet where you’re going.

It can be terrifying. It can be disorienting.

But it can also be sacred.

What Do You Do When You Don’t Know?

Most of us were taught that when we’re confused, we need to “figure it out.” Get a plan. Take a course. Set new goals. Move. Do something. Anything.

But I’ve come to learn that the real wisdom in these moments lies not in reacting, but in pausing. In resisting the urge to fix or flee. In letting the questions breathe without rushing to answer them.

Because these moments of deep dissonance often precede transformation.

They are not signs that something is wrong—they are signs that something is waking up.

Sometimes it’s your purpose, knocking from within the shell of your current life.

Sometimes it’s grief, finally ready to be felt.

Sometimes it’s desire, long buried under obligation, stretching its wings again.

And sometimes it’s a truth you didn’t know you were ready to live.

On Listening to Yourself

It is no small thing to tell the truth to yourself. Especially when that truth threatens to disrupt the very life you’ve built. But the longer you ignore that quiet voice, the louder the consequences become.

The body starts to ache.

The soul feels dim.

The joy leaks out of things that once made you feel alive.

So I am learning to listen. Not to panic. Not to pivot too fast. But to honour what is surfacing.

To ask: What am I trying to tell myself that I haven’t been willing to hear?

I may not have the answers yet. But I have the awareness.

And that’s where all honest transformation begins.

Business as Usual Is No Longer an Option

These are awakenings from which you simply cannot return to “normal.” The dissonance becomes too loud. The cost too high. The lie too brittle to keep holding.

You start to see how deeply your life has been shaped by things that are no longer true for you—expectations that aren’t yours, definitions of success that feel hollow, roles that feel more like performance than purpose.

When that realization comes, it doesn’t mean you throw everything away. But it does mean you can no longer go forward asleep.

The soul has spoken.

And now you must choose whether you will follow.

Holding the In-Between

This isn’t a blog with a neat resolution. I don’t have a five-step plan. I am still here—in the in-between. But I know that I am being invited into something deeper, truer, more honest than what came before.

So I am holding space. For the ache. For the clarity that will come. For the version of me that is just beginning to rise.

If you are here too—on a threshold you can’t yet name—I honour you. You are not lost. You are not failing. You are awakening.

And some bells, once rung, are not meant to be silenced.

They are meant to call you home.