From birth to death, aging is a lifelong process of change. In our earliest years, those changes are often visible and celebrated. We grow “up,” acquiring new physical abilities and learning at a breathtaking pace. As children and young adults, our intellectual growth is measured, graded, and sometimes rewarded through school, work, and professional advancement.
Those who love us also witness our emotional growth as it unfolds through relationships. We hope that by adulthood we’ve moved beyond toddler tantrums and the emotional whiplash of adolescence, learning instead to respond with greater self-awareness and compassion.
Across the many dimensions of our lives—physical, emotional, intellectual, and spiritual—growth doesn’t always happen in a smooth, steady line. Sometimes it comes in spurts. Other times it unfolds slowly, almost imperceptibly. There are seasons when we feel as though we are standing on a plateau: familiar, steady, and relatively comfortable. Nothing dramatic seems to be changing, and the ground beneath our feet feels solid.
The challenge comes when we are moved—sometimes abruptly, sometimes reluctantly—from one familiar place to another. These transitions often feel far less comfortable. They may be welcome and planned, such as retirement, a career shift, or the birth of a child. Or they may arrive uninvited: the loss of a loved one, a health diagnosis, a relationship ending, or an unexpected change in work or identity. Moving from what we know into what comes next can leave us feeling unmoored, confused, and even deeply pained.
Toward the Unfamiliar: Cliffs and Fog
In his book What to Make of a Life, Jim Collins offers language that many of us find startlingly accurate. He calls the initiating event of a major transition “the Cliff.” What follows—when we’ve stepped or been pushed into something new but haven’t yet found our footing—he calls “the Fog.” The Fog is a time of disorientation, when we are trying to make sense of who we are now and where we belong. It is often uncomfortable, and it lasts as long as it lasts. There is no rushing our way through it.
Dr. Janis Clark Johnston, a recent guest on The Abundant Aging Podcast and the author of Transforming Retirement, describes a similar experience. After saying goodbye to what was, she writes, we often enter “a maze of emotions and unmet needs.” She calls this a “muddling stage,” marked by loss of energy, vulnerability, and swirling uncertainty as we try on new ways of living and being. Her language offers reassurance: this confusion isn’t a failure. It’s part of the process.
One recent retiree I know refers to this season as his “fallow time.” Just as a field sometimes needs to rest—to lie fallow before it can bear fruit again—so, too, do we. There is wisdom in pausing before rushing into what’s next. And yet, being still can feel deeply stressful, especially after decades shaped by calendars, productivity, and the expectation that we will always be accomplishing, improving, or producing.
Eventually, this foggy, muddling time begins to lift—not because we force it to, but because we rediscover who we are and what gives our lives meaning in this new season. Collins encourages us to take small steps, one at a time, without the pressure to plan too far ahead. Johnston suggests we are, in many ways, rewiring our personalities, learning how to inhabit ourselves differently than before.
Trust Beyond Our Fear
One of the greatest challenges during times of transition is learning to trust ourselves again—especially when familiar routines, roles, and relationships no longer anchor us. When we feel untethered, our inner voices can grow loud with doubt. In those moments, seeking wise and loving support becomes not a weakness, but a spiritual practice.
At age 51, after serving as a local church pastor for 25+ years, I found myself facing an unexpected opportunity to apply for a different position. I hadn’t been searching. I still felt deeply committed to my pastoral role. After imagining what such a change might mean, I dismissed the possibility almost immediately. I wasn’t ready—or so I thought—for such a significant shift in my ministry.
What I didn’t initially trust were the subtle but persistent hints of energy and curiosity that surfaced alongside my fear. Excitement and resistance danced together, and fear gave me plenty of reasons not to consider the change. What I did trust, however, was my spouse, who encouraged me to look more closely. I trusted my spiritual director, who helped me gently untangle my conflicting feelings. Their presence created space for discernment rather than urgency.
Clearing the Fog—An accompanied Process
There is a process within the Quaker tradition known as a Clearness Committee. When someone is wrestling with a decision or transition, they gather a small group of trusted people—not to give advice, but to listen deeply. Committee members ask only clarifying questions. They may reflect back what they hear so that the individual can listen anew to their own truth. Silence is welcomed. The process is unhurried, grounded in trust that clarity emerges when we are truly heard.
While I didn’t formally convene a Clearness Committee, the constellation of trusted people around me—my spouse, my spiritual director, and close colleagues and friends—served a similar role. They helped me clarify what I was feeling and what I might be called to consider. Had I relied solely on my own internal dialogue, I would have stayed safely on the familiar ground. Instead, I eventually stepped off the cliff into a new role. Nearly thirteen years later, I can say with gratitude that the risk opened the door to deep fulfillment and growth that I could not have imagined at the time.
The stress and anxiety of transition can be eased significantly when we move through the fog alongside others we trust. Friends who know us well, family who want us to flourish, spiritual companions, counselors, and pastors can all help hold us steady. So can connecting with others who are also in the fog—or who are a few steps farther along the path. When we can’t yet trust our own instincts, borrowed courage matters.
Fogginess is a normal and faithful response to profound change. But confusion does not have to become our permanent address. With time, wise companionship, and attention to the movement of the Spirit, new clarity emerges. We find fresh ways to carry divine light into the world, contributing to our communities and rediscovering meaning and purpose. Even—and perhaps especially—in times of transition, abundance is still possible.
Questions for Reflection:
Where do I recognize myself right now—in a familiar plateau, standing at the edge of a cliff, or somewhere deep in the fog? What feels hardest to name about this season?
What voices or relationships do I trust that help me listen more deeply to my own truth and to the movement of the Spirit—and where might I need to lean into that support more intentionally?
If this reflection on transition feels familiar, you’re not alone—and you don’t have to navigate it by yourself. NEXT Steps, offered in partnership with The Center for Abundant Aging and Eden Theological Seminary, is a semester‑long, non‑academic program designed for people who are approaching, navigating, or newly beyond their professional lives. Rooted in trust, spiritual reflection, and shared discernment, NEXT Steps offers a supportive cohort experience for those finding their way through the fog beyond titles, roles, and paychecks. Rather than rushing toward answers, participants are invited to reframe this season as one of renewal and possibility, listening for what’s next with the help of trusted companions—much like a clearness committee. Learn more through the links on our website.
