Change, Grief, and the Space In Between

In my work lately, I have seen a pattern emerging. Change.

Some clients are graduating from college, standing at the edge of what’s next. Others are leaving jobs they’ve outgrown—or stepping into new ones that ask more of them than they feel ready to give. Relationships are ending, beginning, or reshaping in ways that are both meaningful and disorienting. There’s movement everywhere. And alongside supporting my clients through these transitions, I find myself in one as well—moving from Florida back to my home state of Minnesota. A return, yes. But also a letting go.

What I’m noticing, both professionally and personally, is this: even when change is chosen, even when it’s “good,” it often carries something tender with it—a form of grief.

Not always the kind we readily name. Not always the kind others recognize. But something real, nonetheless. When we think about grief, we often associate it with loss in its most visible forms—death, endings, absence. But research in psychology and neuroscience suggests that grief is not limited to these experiences. Transitions of all kinds—relocation, career shifts, identity changes, evolving relationships—can activate similar emotional and physiological processes.

From an attachment perspective, humans are wired to seek continuity, familiarity, and predictability. When something shifts, even in a positive direction, there is a disruption to that sense of stability. Studies on life transitions and stress show that the brain often processes these disruptions as a form of loss—something known, something expected, something held—no longer present in the same way. This doesn’t mean the change is wrong. It means the system is adjusting. And adjustment takes energy.

It’s common, during periods of change, to feel a mix of emotions that don’t seem to “match” the situation—excitement alongside sadness, relief alongside anxiety, hope alongside a sense of disorientation. This is not confusion. It’s integration. There is a concept in psychological science called emotional complexity—the ability to experience multiple, even seemingly contradictory emotions at the same time. Research has shown that individuals who can hold both positive and negative emotions simultaneously tend to demonstrate greater resilience, adaptability, and overall psychological well-being. In other words, feeling both grief and excitement doesn’t mean you’re doing change poorly. It often means you’re doing it well.

Where many people get stuck is in the expectation that they should “focus on the positive,” especially when the change is self-initiated or culturally framed as a success.

They try to move quickly past the discomfort, to reframe, to look ahead. And while hope and forward movement are important, skipping over the grief doesn’t actually make it go away—it just goes unprocessed. Similar to what we see in the stress response cycle, emotional experiences—especially those tied to loss or transition—often require acknowledgment and integration, not just cognitive reframing. Suppressing or minimizing grief has been associated with increased physiological stress, emotional numbing, and delayed processing over time.

Grief, even in its quieter forms, asks to be felt. Not indefinitely. Not all at once. But enough that the system can register that something meaningful has changed. This might look like pausing to reflect on what is ending, even as something new begins. It might look like naming what you’ll miss, honoring what was, or allowing moments of sadness without trying to immediately “fix” them. It might also look like recognizing that part of the discomfort isn’t just about loss—but about uncertainty. The brain, wired for prediction, doesn’t yet have a clear map of what’s ahead. That ambiguity can feel unsettling, even when the future holds possibility.

And yet, alongside all of this, something else is often present—a quiet sense of opening.

Growth. Possibility. Curiosity. Even, at times, excitement. These emotions don’t cancel out the grief; they coexist with it. Just as the nervous system can hold activation and regulation at the same time, we can hold both the weight of what we are leaving and the potential of what we are moving toward. This is the space in between—not fully here, not fully there. A space that can feel ungrounded, but also deeply alive.

In my own process of moving back to Minnesota, I’ve noticed moments of unexpected emotion—gratitude for the time spent in Florida and the friendships we made there, sadness in the small, ordinary things I know I’ll miss, and at the same time, a genuine sense of anticipation—returning home, reconnecting with familiar places and people, stepping into what’s next. Both are true. And neither needs to be rushed.

So if you find yourself in a season of change—whether it’s visible to others or quietly unfolding—consider a slightly different question. Not, “Why is this harder than it should be?” but, “What might I be in the process of letting go of?” And alongside that, “What might be beginning?” You don’t have to choose between honoring the past and moving toward the future. The work, often, is learning how to hold both—gently, gradually—allowing the system to catch up to the life that is already unfolding.