How illness revealed the quiet transformation that happens in life’s in-between spaces.
I’m not used to falling ill, until I did, this March, and found myself in unfamiliar territory: that of being a patient.
I was in a liminal space—moving from being someone who rarely fell ill to someone who could hardly walk, uncertain when or how I would recover.
For years, I identified as a caregiver. When my late husband fell ill six years ago, I became his primary carer, and since then, I’ve cared for others in my family too. The caregiver identity ran deep, and beneath it was a quiet belief that I didn’t have time to fall ill. I took secret pride in my resilience, in escaping the flues that caught others.
Still, a small part of me sometimes wondered: What if I were the one who fell ill?
Life, the patient teacher that it is, soon provided the answer.
The Fall
March was a full month with back-to-back workshops, panels, coaching assignments. I felt energised and quietly invincible. But pride, as they say, goes before a fall.
One morning I woke feeling slightly off, but decided to push through. By evening, I could barely crawl into bed. And I didn’t get up for four days. The diagnosis was Chikungunya, a mosquito-borne illness that attacks the joints.
For the next two months, I could hardly walk as my ankles swelled like cushions. My hands, once steady for writing or doing ordinary things, struggled even with the simplest movements.
During this time, I lived in limbo, unable to recognise myself. Once strong and self-reliant, I now needed help with the smallest of tasks. My identity had shifted from being a caregiver to “someone suffering from Chikungunya.”
Only now, eight months later, am I beginning to slip into a new sense of self, a body that can return to some of the old, and embrace new practices that sustain me.
Liminal spaces demand that we unlearn who we were, before we can invite other possibilities of ourselves.
The In-between Liminal Space
Sudden, unexpected events propel us into liminal spaces. I’ve previously written about what it was like when my husband was diagnosed with cancer, and how we navigated that in-between. This time, while not fatal, the transition was different—I was the patient, unable to hold a towel or brush my hair without pain.
It was humbling. My identity, my pride, crumbled. I too was human, fallible.
Lessons from the Liminal Space
Surrender first.
Liminal spaces call us to let go—of past identities, beliefs, and attachments that no longer serve us. Uncertainty and ambiguity are the hallmarks of such moments. Surrendering isn’t giving up; it’s accepting what is. It’s the first step toward finding your ground and balance.
Move in small, experimental steps.
My instinct was to hurry towards recovery, but healing demanded patience. I had to slow down, to take one day, one step at a time. Experimental steps help us to learn and adjust as we go along. And this serves you well in spaces that are unclear and shifting, moment to moment.
Let community hold you.
I reached out to family and friends. I was a part of a small group—The CG Girls—who checked in daily. It was a place to share frustrations, progress, laughter, tears. We didn’t feel alone, and reminded one another that this too shall pass.
We heal faster when we stop pretending we can do it alone.
Pause and breathe.
In chaos, the body goes into survival mode, a natural stress response. Slowing the breath activates the parasympathetic nervous system—the body’s natural rest and repair mechanism. When we breathe deeply, we calm our internal storms. In that calm, in the pause, we notice our surroundings, sense possibilities in the midst of chaos, and make clearer, wiser choices.
Be patient.
Patience is surrender in action. Some things take time and follow their own order. I slept with my legs raised for weeks just to be able to hobble the next morning. Each step, literal and metaphorical, was small, deliberate, and progressive. To hurry up or to resist is to miss the lesson in the moment. Patience is a teacher to pay attention to what needs tending and to lean into the possibilities that is yet evolving.
Stay curious.
Curiosity is the bridge between what was and what is emerging. I began to ask: What am I learning here? What must I let go of? What new practices want to take root?
That curiosity birthed a new morning ritual of stretching, what began as recovery is now an everyday act of self-care. Curiosity takes nothing for granted, and opens possibilities we haven’t considered before. It is a stance that invites a learning beginner mind, playfulness and experimentation.
Practice self-compassion.
Six weeks into recovery, I thought I was well enough to travel. I returned home unable to walk. I was furious with myself. Compassion was the only way forward—to forgive my impatience, and begin again. In transitional and ambiguous spaces, we make mistakes and missteps—in this instance, literal ones. Compassion is a way of letting go of regret, shame, and blame, allowing insights to transform into wisdom
Keep your humour.
Some days, what I couldn’t do made me laugh. Brushing my teeth, something I had done for over fifty years, became a comedy of effort. Laughter softened frustration and helped me stay kind to myself. Laughter helps us take ourselves less seriously, and is a healing balm.
Become emotionally agile.
My brain lagged behind, slow to catch up to the sudden betrayals of my body. In those first days, fear and disbelief were my constant companions. Pausing helped me name my emotions and find self-compassion to accept the presence of those emotions. Saying ‘I feel scared’ instead of ‘I am scared’ loosened the tight grip and identification with these emotions. It allowed humour at my childlike grip on the toothbrush, and the frustration, to co-exist. On better days, I chose childlike wonder at my progress in brushing my teeth. Instead of being slaves to our emotions, we can be in the driver’s seat and choose those that serve us well.
Embrace conscious vulnerability.
Opening up to fear and limitation, without shame is healing. Wearing flip-flops to a workshop because no shoe fit or asking a participant to carry my laptop taught me humility. Asking for help doesn’t weaken us; it connects us. Allowing ourselves to be seen doesn’t diminish us; it invites us to reclaim ourselves, to return to what makes us deeply human. The exhaustion of pretense, denial, and repression can be replaced by the freedom to experiment with the version of ourselves that serves us best.
Finding Grace in Liminal Spaces
What I learned in this liminal space—moving from a well body to a temporarily ill one—was fierce grace.
To practise fierce grace is to stand, or even lie, where you are, and meet what is called of you in each uncertain, tender moment. It is to surrender without losing hope, to adapt, to listen to what is emerging.
Fierce grace is what remains when control softens into humility and resilience becomes possible.
Today, I no longer see myself as the invincible caregiver, nor as someone with Chikungunya. Instead, I hold a gentler story—one of a caregiver who has also learned to care for herself.
Liminal spaces are powerful teachers. When we submit to their lessons, we don’t return to who we were, we become something truer, steadier, and more whole.
