The In-Between

On March 23, 2026, I met up with some friends at Starbucks in my old neighborhood on the north side of Chicago. It was launch day for my book, The Luck We Carry, a memoir told in essays about my late husband Ken and our journey together through his cancer, and mine alone after he died. I wanted—needed—to put some goodness out into the world. Though the topic is heavy, I wrote with the idea that it could help someone navigating grief, learning from my lessons. This date was extra special because it marked the 25th anniversary of Ken and me meeting.

Eight days later, I didn’t have a job.

Let me back up.

For four years, I worked in corporate communications at Oracle. I wrote things for a living—internal communications, content, copy—which meant I got to spend my days doing the thing I loved while quietly telling myself the thing I really loved was waiting for me after work, in a Ulysses project called TLWC.

The book had been with me for a long time. Ten years in one form or another. This version—the real version, the one that finally said what I actually meant—for the last two. It was about Ken. About loving him and losing him and figuring out how to carry that. About the stories we inherit from the people we love and can’t stop telling even after they’re gone.

I wrote it early in the mornings. I wrote it on weekends. I wrote it in the margins of a life that was otherwise pretty full. My teammates knew about the book. They knew how important it was to me—how it eclipsed my corporate work in ways great and small. They knew about Ken and had a vague idea of what we’d endured together. That kind of openness matters to me. It’s how I know I’m somewhere worth being.

The layoff came on March 31.

I’ve written about the mechanics of that morning elsewhere—the spam folder, the text from my boss in the UK, the anonymous email from “Oracle Leadership.” What I haven’t written about is what the days immediately after felt like.

This immense change didn’t feel that different in practice. As someone who worked from home, I was home. And though I wasn’t working on Oracle work, I was sitting at my desk working on my own projects, getting up to grab a bite or walk Hudson with impunity. There were no meetings to consider. There was no one else to consider. There is an overwhelm that comes from such a wildly sudden change. Even though my base emotion was relief, there were big questions I had to find answers to: what would I do next to fill my soul, and what would I do next to pay my bills.

Would they be the same thing?

My debut memoir was released 8 days ago. I have an author event scheduled a month out. I had a launch team, a newsletter, a Substack, and a list of things I was supposed to be doing to make sure the book found its readers.

And I also had a resume that needed updating.

Those two things do not naturally coexist.

Back to launch day. It arrived the way big days usually do—I was back in my old neighborhood with friends who knew Ken and me. I’d planned it to be low-key and somewhat reverential to the places that once meant so much to me: the apartment where I lived when I met Ken, the apartment we shared until his death, the bar where it all began. It all felt so familiar and so loving. The day went exactly as I hoped.

I’d shepherded the book out of my head and into something tangible. It existed in the world. Someone I’d never met was reading about Ken. About us. About the years we had and the years we didn’t. That part felt exactly the way I thought it would.

I’m writing this article three-and-a-half weeks out from launch day. The book is doing well. Sales are consistent, and the reviews have remained five-star. The job search is ongoing. The calendar is still emptier than I’m used to, but I’m not sure that’s a bad thing.

But here’s the thing about writing a book about loss: it teaches you, slowly and against your will, that the in-between is not a waiting room. It’s not the part you endure until the real part starts. It is the real part.

I’m still in the in-between. I’m starting to think that might be okay.

What are you in the middle of right now that you keep telling yourself is just the in-between?