The Threshold Is Not Empty
We often imagine identity as a fixed point; a name etched into glass, a passport, a profession, a story we can tell without hesitation. But this idea is incomplete. Our truest self does not live in destinations. It lives in the transit lounge, the hallway, the pause between one chapter and the next. This is the realm of the liminal, from the Latin limen, meaning threshold, a space that is neither here nor there, but charged with becoming.
In anthropology, liminality refers to the middle phase of rites of passage; the moment when you are no longer who you were, but not yet who you will become. These are moments of ambiguity, openness, disorientation. We meet them in adolescence, in migration, in career shifts, in grief, in healing. The liminal self is not a flaw in the system; it is the system. To be between things is not to be lost. It is to be in motion.
What You Leave Behind Is Still Watching
When we enter a liminal phase, we imagine we are breaking free from something; a job, a role, a relationship, an old self. But every departure leaves shadows. The echoes of past identities don’t vanish; they linger like unfinished sentences, quietly asking, Was I enough? Did I matter?
You may no longer live in your hometown, but you still walk its streets in dreams. You may no longer wear the uniform, but part of you still buttons it up each morning in memory. These ghosts are not obstacles; they are reminders. They tether us to the layers we’ve shed. And if we listen closely, they tell us which parts were performance… and which were truth.
Rituals of the In-Between
The liminal demands ritual. Not necessarily religious, but symbolic, markers that acknowledge we are in flux. We light candles, cut our hair, buy new clothes, change our name, or write in a journal we won’t show anyone. These are not superficial acts. They are anchors. We wear symbols not to signal arrival, but to survive passage.
This is where our wardrobe becomes more than fabric. A pocket square with shifting patterns, a ring passed down but worn differently, a tie with a knot learned anew; these are not just style choices. They are talismans of transition. They tell the world, and remind ourselves, that we are becoming.
In the 1984.black collections, especially in pieces like The Whisper Signal Cufflinks or The Veil of Verona Pocket Square, there is an unspoken grammar of movement. Nothing is stable. Shapes repeat but shift. Motifs emerge, then dissolve. These aren’t statements of certainty. They’re symbols of flux, perfect for a self in motion.
When You Don’t Yet Recognize Yourself
The hardest part of any liminal phase is the moment you realize you no longer fit the mask you wore, but haven’t found a new one to replace it. This is the stretch of days where you feel formless. You don’t belong with who you were, but the next version of you hasn’t arrived.
This dissonance is powerful and painful. It can lead to overcompensation: new identities grabbed too fast, roles inhabited too rigidly. But the liminal self resists quick resolution. It asks you to wait, to shed, to listen. To trust that the self is not a single sculpture but a procession of silhouettes; some sharp, some blurred.
To inhabit this in-between without rushing it is a form of quiet courage. It’s easier to perform than to pause. But every real metamorphosis begins with suspension.
Arrival Is Always Temporary
Eventually, something stabilizes. You find yourself speaking with more conviction. You laugh a little differently. You stop explaining your choices. This, too, is part of the cycle. The liminal ends, but only for now.
Because identity is not a fixed address. It is a route, and we pass through many thresholds. Each transition leaves traces, but also offers tools. The self you are now was built on the scaffolding of every in-between you survived. You may forget the precise words you spoke in those transits, but you carry the tone in your bones.
The liminal self is not a waiting room. It is where transformation lives.
