First time I read this book, I read a practical guide to growing through change. A sort of hero's journey where you let the old you die and the new you emerge to a catchy tune and celebration. A familiar pattern that fits neatly into the story I tell myself about my life. I have fifteen transitions that are neatly mapped out and catalogued. Proof that I can emerge from any situation wiser and stronger than I went in. Proof for myself.
Only after re-reading it did I come to understand that's not what the book is about at all. The hero's journey is my thing... defense mechanisms probably, so deeply ingrained that I simply pasted them over the subtle points that Bridges was making. Bridges isn't selling a technique. It's not a productivity hack. There aren't four steps you can take over three weeks that get you to the other side of this. Bridges is much more radical than that.
The central metaphor of Bridge's book is that a transition consists of three parts: an ending, a middle, and a new beginning. He argues that a transition truly begins when you let go of the old you. And that the work of it happens before you have grasped hold of a new you. And the middle part is where everything happens. When your feet loose touch with the ground. He describes a disorienting, potentially scary, aimless state. Letting go as an act of surrender - accepting a void of definition and to stay there long enough to come to terms with the loss of the old self. It is traversed slowly, even painfully.
Let me start by telling a story about a time I did not let a transition happen.
Homelessness. I was in my teens. Life had been complicated for a while. We'd moved constantly. We'd lived in places that I wouldn't exactly call a home. But they had roofs. Running water. Each was more spartan than the last, but they all involved the basic structures of modern life. Then we got to one that didn't have those structures. The first day I was truly homeless, I went into a field until I couldn't see anything as far as I looked. And I cried for hours. But then the next day I came back as the exact same person I was before. Someone who was competent, disciplined, and headed for college where he would escape all of this. The version of myself that lost his home was deeply traumatized. But he did not lose himself. Rather he doubled down - hard. And that version of me did not die until I was several years into college (see story two below).
There are only three times in my life I've actually had myself a Bridges transition.
1. When we left our first house. I was six. The divorce was real, my father was gone, we'd lost the house and we were going somewhere new. The version of me that had only ever lived in one place and had a father died that day. We sat in an empty living room eating Taco Bell. I understood I would be going somewhere different, but I couldn't imagine where or what that would be like. My mom had cried during the divorce, but on that night I realized she was crying out of helplessness, not pain. That there was no one coming to save us. That in the most important sense, there was no we. I was alone. There was a version of me that trusted that his world was safe and the people he cared about loved him and wanted the best for him. And on that evening, he died and I entered a strange place where I waited for a new version of myself to emerge. That version was guarded, felt out of place... knew he did not belong, could not expect the best from others, and felt the rug was always about to be pulled out from under him. That person survived well into my thirties. And a shadow of him remains with me today.
2. The moment suicide became real. When I was admitted to Harvard's psychiatric ward under a suicide protocol.
The week I spent in a psych ward remains one of the most disconnected of my life. Who was that guy? He struggled with demons in that hospital. He also entered some other world that this me has never been to. He didn't think of anything practical. He didn't wonder when he was getting out. Or speculate on what was happening back at school. Those worlds did not exist to him. He was somewhere else. And I suppose that gave my subconscious the time and space it required to construct a new version of myself from the pieces of the old one - ensuring at the least that the new one would not have the same weakness.
In that moment, I let go of the version of me that had to be the best at something. I accepted, subconsciously, that being second best did not risk homelessness or some terrible ending. It was actually just fine. And the version of me that came back to college as a senior and entered the workforce was dogged, focused, and ultimately comfortable with himself in a way the previous me had not been. He could mess something up, fix it, and remain poised and confident. He did not equate failure with a lethal threat. And that made him ready to enter the workplace with grace.
3. Psychic collapse. I had a mental breakdown in my mid 30s. I took a month off work. I read, walked, parented. But whatever part of my brain had been in control up to that point simply stopped working. And I didn't fight that. The version of me that came back to work a month later saw with different eyes. He played the game of work for fun. And won more often, probably because that wasn't the point anymore. Everything felt arms length. My point of view elevated beyond my ego - drawn by the gravity of weightier matters: parenting, humility, a form of evil that I'd had the good fortune to witness up close, and the vivid reminder of pains from the past.
What preceded the mental breakdown? Two experiences shocked my nervous system.
(a) My mother and I spoke about my grandfather's sexual abuse. Ultimately it was her story that made it real. When she told me he had abused her, then I realized my experience was real. That it had actually happened. There is a sense in which we go through life editing out the evil we cannot perceive. As if our eyes can only process certain colors that our soul is ready for. And when your soul breaks and reforms, you widen your perspective on what exists in the world. One reason that it is so painful to abuse a child is that their soul is so soft. So new. It must wait an impossible time before it can receive and process the reality of what it has experienced. In this moment, at thirty five, I made sense of the experiences I had from six to twelve. And my view on the world shifted. I could see people as they were and not hold it against them. It replaced fear with savvy.
(b) I began to recognize the impact of trauma on my psychology and I began to fear for the impact that might have on my children. On the whole, I felt I was a decent father. But in moments, I was unfamiliar to myself. And my oldest was beginning to get old enough to notice. And I knew I had to do something. I sought therapy, which became the starting point for a series of startling and disorienting revalations that ended with looking my past full on. And that triggered a breakdown which set me free.
To this point, I am not sure I have ever purposefully transitioned. It’s still not clear to me one can. My transitions came not when the subject was ready but when the world demanded them. But right now I am walking toward a transition - or at least something that feels like it will be one: I'll leave my job and career in 18 months.
So what am I doing right now?
I am preparing for a transition. Bridges does not cover this in his book. I have not left my old identity: I work, I parent, I pursue my hobbies. I trialed life without work in my third paternity leave. But I understood I would return to work. There was no existential bewilderment. There was merely free time that I could deploy toward productive activities.
So how am I preparing myself to transition? Simply by living this portion of my life to its greatest extent while I still have it.
• I am slowing down.
• I approach my old environments with wonder and appreciation, not mundanity.
• I take up my old tasks with curiosity and experimentation, not utilitarian speed and determination.
• I play with my life, knowing this me will not exist much longer and I need to see what he can do.
The moment before a transition is a moment to deepen presence, like one crouches before one leaps.
• It is a moment to make peace with the troubles and shortcomings.
• It is a moment to acknowledge small endings - moments when you can feel the curtain drawing closed.
• It is not a moment to plan the next version of one's self but rather to acknowledge that I simply do not know what will emerge from a process that has not yet begun.
• It is a moment to deepen my understanding of the spiritual, emotional, and psychological realms: as much through learning as through experimentation.
To live like I was dying, so to speak. And through doing so to prepare the ground for the leap and for the return. To prepare the part of me that must leave the ground and find its way back.
What part of me do I need to let go of? Oh, I suspect it is the last vestiges of the version of me that associates competence with self worth. The version of me that is waiting for the point. That makes space for love after he has ensured the ship is sailing in the right direction. Or perhaps something else. I just do not know yet. Or perhaps this will not be a transition at all.
Perhaps that is not something I am meant to know. Perhaps it's not something I can know. Perhaps all of this preparing is fruitless. Perhaps the next transition will yield no insight. Perhaps it will just be a trip to the abyss that allows me to say goodbye to this part of my life. Perhaps the next transition will not come when I leave work, but when the next flood arrives.
Perhaps this retirement reflects the version of me that returned from a mental breakdown fully stepping into himself rather than a truly new ending. A sort of recognition that while this me can still thrive in the office, he is not made for there. That the soul's work lies elsewhere.
Perhaps the highest spiritual act is not to be up to the task but to let one's self be broken, scattered unprepared. Perhaps the blessing is not to return wiser, but to let myself be lost at sea. This is a point Bridges does not contemplate. He maintains a sort of teleology of lostness. But how can we know?
Whatever comes next, this book was a blessing. I am deeply grateful to its author.
May my spirit be up to the task that he so beautifully advocates.