The waiting game

Reclaiming Power in the Space Between Waiting and Becoming

Recently, a series of events made me reflect on “the waiting game.” I couldn’t help but wonder: how often do we find ourselves waiting—not just for someone, but for something—a sign, an apology, or even a simple acknowledgment of our time? Is it human nature to hold space for others, or have we cultivated this habit out of politeness, fear, or hope that things will eventually change?

How strong is our need to be “nice”? Even when all the signs are clear that we’ve outgrown certain people or places, why do we wait for them to catch up? Why do we stay in spaces where we know we are not truly welcomed or celebrated?

This week, I found myself in a situation that felt all too familiar. I was parked at the edge of a dead-end street, both literally and metaphorically. Behind me, three cars had boxed me in, and in front of me, there was another obstacle. As I sat there, stuck between wanting to move forward and feeling held back by forces outside of my control, it struck me: how many of us live like this every day? Trapped in tiny dead ends, waiting for others to clear the path, even though we already have the power to back up and drive away?

It’s funny how these moments reflect something much bigger. When you’re in the flow—when you’re aligned with yourself—life feels easy, and doors open. But what happens when someone steps into your flow and disrupts it? Do you politely wait for them to finish what they’re doing, hoping they’ll eventually make room for you? Or do you take back the reins of your time and energy and walk away?

I think we’ve all been there: waiting for a friend to show up, for a lover to change, for someone to tell us how they truly feel, or for life to give us permission to move forward. And it’s always the same dynamic. The longer we wait, the more we give away something precious: our focus, our peace, our power.

But here’s the thing about waiting—it isn’t always passive. Sometimes waiting is an act of patience, of trusting the universe’s timing. And other times, it’s an excuse. A way to avoid facing the truth: that the person or situation we’re waiting for may never change. That the dead-end street isn’t going to magically turn into an open road.

So how do we know the difference? How do we recognize when waiting is a graceful surrender and when it’s a slow erosion of our self-worth? Is it about the person we’re waiting for, or is it about us?

I was supposed to return a beautiful object to someone I hold dear—a soul connection, not just a friend. You’ll soon understand that I don’t do “friends”; too much attachment comes with that title. Instead, I have soul connections—some that have been present for a while, others more transitory.

We had agreed that I would drop it off, but when I arrived, she was on a call and asked me to wait 10 minutes. I conceded because I was in my car, handling other tasks, and I didn’t need to rush. But then she pushed it back two more times, and I found myself questioning not only her behavior but my own.

The answer became clear after forty minutes of waiting, when her message finally came: “You can leave it there; I’m still on a call.” It hit me like the punchline to a bad joke. I had already spent enough time in that car, parked in the metaphorical waiting room of someone else’s drama. The moment I chose to leave, I felt a sense of lightness—not because I had stopped waiting, but because I had reclaimed my time.

And here’s the funny part: just as I drove away, she messaged me again, asking if I was still there and launching into apologies and justifications. It was drama I had no desire to participate in.

It wasn’t just about that moment, though. It was about every time I’d let someone else’s lack of consideration dictate my energy. It was about all the times I’d convinced myself to stay because leaving felt like giving up, even when staying drained me. It was about the pattern of waiting—on people, on circumstances, on life itself—to give me permission to move forward.

Maybe the real question isn’t whether we should wait or walk away. Maybe the question is: who are we becoming while we wait? Are we staying present, grounded, and connected to ourselves? Or are we shrinking, twisting ourselves into knots to justify someone else’s delays?

By the time I left that dead-end street, I had my answer. Waiting is only worthwhile if it feels like an act of love—for yourself, for the situation, for life. Otherwise, it’s just a distraction disguised as hope.

When the Divine Disrupts Our Plans

We’ve all found ourselves in this position—waiting. That suspended moment where we hope for something or someone to finally arrive in our reality. Waiting… Isn’t it almost a human condition? Every day, we wait for things beyond our control: the bus, dinner to cook, the night to pass, a response to come, or a door to open.

Recently, I started reflecting deeply on my relationship with waiting—not the everyday kind, but the grand, looming waits that seem to guide (or hold back) my life.

Waiting to feel ready to welcome a man into my life.

Waiting to sell my house so I can move forward.

Waiting to buy land to build my future in Sintra.

Waiting for him to finally open his eyes so I can fully welcome him.

Waiting to let go of everything so I can start writing.

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. But what, exactly, am I waiting for? For the perfect moment? For the path to magically clear itself? For the universe to offer guarantees before I take the next step?

And yet, there’s this seductive idea of divine timing—that moment when everything aligns and things unfold effortlessly. But what if this “divine timing” isn’t about waiting at all? What if it’s there to remind us that waiting, in itself, makes no sense—that everything is already here? That the key lies in gentle action, conscious choices, and surrendering to the present moment, rather than sitting in passive anticipation?

Reclaiming Power in Stillness

And here’s the paradox: reclaiming your power doesn’t always mean acting. Sometimes, it means observing, contemplating, welcoming. Being in a stillness that no longer seeks to escape or force. What separates this stillness from waiting is presence. Being here without wishing things were different.

The “In-Between”: When Waiting Becomes Kindness

There are times in life that don’t feel like beginnings or endings but like an in-between. Those moments when you’re no longer where you were, but not yet where you want to be. It’s a strange, sometimes uncomfortable space, where you float between a dissolving past and a future that hasn’t yet materialized. A space where waiting takes on a different form: that of kindness toward yourself.

In between - copyright Rui Aguiar

Discover the full story behind this shoot In between https://www.iamannecolin.com/artworks/in-between

What if this in-between isn’t passive waiting, but active transition—a time to integrate what you’ve gone through and prepare for what’s coming?

And What Comes Next?

I don’t know exactly what the future holds. Sintra, maybe, or another land calling my name. Writing that flows effortlessly, more aligned energy, deeper peace. What I do know is that this in-between isn’t a mistake. It’s a necessary passage, an initiation. And it’s not something to run from. But rather contemplate in stillness.

Mantra for The Waiting Game

I honor the pause, I welcome the process, and I trust that everything unfolds in divine time.

Meditation for Navigating the In-Between

1. Set the Space:

Find a quiet place where you won’t be disturbed. Sit comfortably with your spine straight, or lie down if that feels better. Light a candle or use essential oils to create a soothing atmosphere.

2. Start with the Breath:

Close your eyes and take three deep breaths, inhaling through your nose and exhaling through your mouth. Imagine that with each inhale, you are drawing in clarity, and with each exhale, you are releasing any tension or impatience.

3. Visualize the In-Between:

Imagine yourself on a bridge. Behind you is the version of yourself that you’re leaving behind—the thoughts, the patterns, the places that no longer serve you. Ahead of you is the future you’re stepping into, glowing with possibilities. Take a moment to acknowledge the view from the bridge—the beauty of not being bound by either side.

4. Repeat the Mantra:

Silently or out loud, repeat the mantra: “I honor the pause, I welcome the process, and I trust that everything unfolds in divine time.” Let the words settle into your being.

5. Anchor in Gratitude:

Bring to mind one thing you’re grateful for in this in-between moment. It could be a small insight, a moment of peace, or even the simple fact that you’re present and open to change. Hold this feeling of gratitude in your heart.

6. Close the Practice:

Slowly bring your awareness back to your breath. When you’re ready, open your eyes and take a few moments to stretch or write down any insights that came to you during the meditation.