“Life falls apart. We try to get a grip and hold it together. And then we realize we don't want to hold it together.”

— Deborah Levy

I’ve come to the conclusion recently that life is a series of short acts and long intermissions— particularly when it comes to work!

After watching The Brutalist earlier this week, I couldn’t stop thinking about intermissions—these deliberate pauses that force you to sit with what you’ve just experienced before going back in for a continuing act. There’s something almost ridiculous about stepping out of the darkness of a theater mid-film, and being forced to squint. Like pausing a book mid-sentence, an intermission doesn’t just interrupt—it holds space for a moment of impact, giving room for something to settle before returning.

Intermissions for me, dramatize hesitation, elevating what might otherwise go unnoticed. I couldn’t stop thinking about the beautiful reading room László Toth designed and built—picturing him standing there before the shelves were filled, before the work was seen, before it was dismissed, and before it was praised.

Lately, I’ve been wondering if life unfolds in much the same way—built through steady, incremental moments that shape us bit by bit, yet also punctuated by pauses, gaps, and intermissions that suspend everything in stillness. These intermissions tend to leave us hovering mid-air, unsure whether we’re moving forward or backward.

Enduring life’s intermissions—especially in creative work—can be so frustrating! But I’m beginning to think it’s at least worth exploring. What do these pauses feel like for me? For others? What do they reveal? And how might they equip us with the courage and tools to step back into the unknown?

For the past year, since selling my little children’s bookstore and gallery, Nooks, I’ve been trying to understand what work should look like for me. There’s something maddening about figuring things out in real time—you never quite know whether you’re on the brink of something beautiful or watching it all quietly unravel.

Books feel like a cheat code—proof that no one really knows what they’re doing, but we’re all stumbling through it together. That’s what makes the mess of it all so deeply human: the false starts, the reinventions, the hope that the next version of ourselves finally has it figured out.

I have done everything in my power to avoid a nine-to-five. Not out of rebellion, but out of a deep, unshakable need to carve my own path—one that kept me tethered to the creative world, but at its farthest, most unstructured edges. I wanted to move through life on my own terms, to find meaning outside of routine, to let curiosity lead.

And so, I let myself sink fully into the trenches of parenting two toddlers—the relentless, beautiful, all-consuming work of it. I went back to Australia for the first time in six years, trying to reconnect with a version of myself I had left behind. I learned to find steadiness in the small things—packing lunchboxes, folding laundry just right, reading the same book five times in a row, walking with no destination in the middle of the day. I let the year unfold without a plan, trusting that if I gave myself space, clarity would eventually find me.

And yet, a year later, I feel further from it than when I started. As if in stepping away, I lost the thread entirely. But maybe that’s just part of it—the waiting, the wandering, the discomfort of not knowing what comes next.

I redownloaded LinkedIn and started searching for jobs. It made me want to throw my laptop off my parents’ balcony and into the ocean. Looking at my résumé, insecurity crept in—how do you quantify running a business or raising tiny humans? The last four years, I’ve worked 90-hour weeks without a single paycheck.

Being a stay-at-home parent was never in my career plan. I’ve had a job since I was 11—I love working. But this kind of work is monotonous, repetitive, painfully slow. My days filled with playgrounds and bedtime stories, ballet classes and library trips, preschool volunteering and endless snack-packing. I saw fewer people, went back to therapy, and rearranged the furniture 37 times. I suppose it all comes down to how you define success. If it’s measured by money or recognition, then I’ve failed.

I’ve come out the other side of full-time parenting only to realize that, on a résumé, it looks like I fell into a black hole. A long, existential pause filled with questions, vulnerability, and mild panic.

• What does a bookseller do when they’re no longer selling books?

• Why does everyone else’s workday look the same?

• What do I actually have to offer?

• What work makes me anxious?

• Why does everyone else seem so qualified?

• Will I ever be the kind of person who can survive a full-time office job?

• How do I make a living doing something I actually like?

• Why don’t people care about soft skills anymore?

• Am I just applying for the wrong jobs?

• Have I quietly expired since running a bookshop and having babies?

• Do weird, in-between jobs exist?

• Does anyone else want to vomit while scrolling LinkedIn?

• How many books could I have read in the time it takes to put together a cover letter?

• Why don’t more people laugh during job interviews?

• Why don’t hiring managers ask better questions—like What are you fussy about? or What’s something out of character you’ve done recently? or What do you no longer believe in?

• Was I applying for jobs because I needed money and a break from my toddlers, or was I actually trying to find my path?

After reading a few rejection emails, I wondered if I was… relieved? I thought about Greta Gerwig in Frances Ha saying, “I’m so embarrassed. I’m not a real person yet,” and laughed so hard I actually felt better. But still—37 and applying for jobs like I just graduated college stings. I’ve been so deep in the weeds of toddlers that stepping back into the world feels like trying to introduce an alien to planet earth!

I called my best friends and cried. Ugly cried. But honestly? That kind of raw, unfiltered honesty is what actually resonates. There’s something weirdly comforting about admitting something embarrassing and watching people go, Oh yeah, I’ve been there too.

Life going perfectly isn’t what connects us—the weird, messy, in-between moments do. The ones that make no sense, where progress feels like a joke and you’re trying so hard to force it anyway.

Have you ever had an intermission in your career or life? A weird pause where nothing made sense? I’d love to hear about it—drop your story in the comments!

Reading: The Life Cycle of the Common Octopus by Emma Knight

Watching: Beth & I are relaunching this baby soon with new films :)

Listening: Out of the Night by Nelson Riddle

Until next time friends!

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