Shannon's Corner

  Have you ever found yourself asking that question? Maybe you used to wake up knowing what you were working toward. You had a role, a responsibility, a dream, a calling, or a place where you felt needed. And then something changed. Sometimes the transition is something you chose. Sometimes it was chosen for you. And somewhere along the way, you realize: “I don't know what I'm doing anymore.” You may feel confused. Numb. Disconnected. Sad. Grieving. Apathetic. Things that once brought fulfillment don't seem to matter in the same way. You may even wonder: “What is my purpose now?” Purpose is often connected to the roles we hold and the things we do. These roles can give our lives structure and meaning. So when a role changes or disappears, we can experience more than the loss of an activity. We may experience a loss of identity, belonging, contribution, direction, and meaning. We might wonder: Who am I if I'm not doing what I used to do? And sometimes the deeper question...

  How do you define “home”? For some people, home is a place—the house where they grew up, the town they have lived in for years, or a familiar community. For others, home is more about the people. Home is where their family is, where their friends gather, or where they feel known and loved. I have personally defined home as “where I am.” Perhaps you can relate. If you have moved from house to house, city to city, church to church, school to school, or job to job, you may have learned how to make home wherever you are. You unpack, learn the new rhythms, meet people, and begin creating a life. But recently, while spending time with some Third Culture Kids, I was reminded that the question of “Where is home?” can be much more complicated. For a TCK, home might be the country where they were born, where they spent their childhood, where their parents are from, or a place they haven't lived in for years but still carry within them. Sometimes they have several places they call home. Som...

  Over the past few articles, we’ve explored transition through the picture of a garden—sowing seeds, cultivating the soil, growing beneath the surface, pruning, and harvesting. Holding all of these together is one simple truth: There are seasons. And so do we. There is a time for planting, waiting, growing, pruning, harvesting, and beginning again. We wouldn't walk into a garden in winter and wonder why there isn't a harvest. We understand that winter has a different purpose. Yet we can be hard on ourselves when we're in a season of waiting, rest, loss, or beginning again. What if instead we asked: What does this season need from me? Maybe it needs patience. Maybe courage. Maybe rest. Maybe grief. Maybe exploration or action. Sometimes we want growth when we're being invited to rest. We want answers when we need to sit with the questions. We want to harvest when the seeds have barely been planted. Transition becomes exhausting when we constantly fight against the seaso...