On Finding Relief in Liminal Space

A contract gig, a beach weekend, and the answers I don't quite have yet

It turns out, all I needed was some income and a weekend spent 10 steps away from the beach.

Who knew?

I briefly mentioned this in my last essay (which, as an aside, I got so many lovely comments on and i still haven’t responded to many of them. I feel bad about that but will get back to you all soon!), but I am not completely unemployed¹ anymore. I say completely, because my new gig is currently a three-month contract, and so while I have the security of some income, that stability is not long-term.

But honestly? It feels like it’s exactly what I need right now. The liminal space of contract work is both daunting but also welcome. It’s a tangible next step without the permanency, so I can still figure out ‘what’s next’ while having something in the interim.

I've wanted to get away for Labor Day weekend since last Labor Day weekend, but when I lost my job, I came to terms with not going anywhere. Despite my reality, I still found myself dreaming of packing our bags and spending a few days somewhere more remote than Brooklyn, maybe with a body of water somewhere nearby.

Then, a few weeks ago I applied for and got accepted to a writer's retreat being held upstate in November, and I poured a bit out from my savings to make that work. While excited, that was the moment I really came to terms with the fact that I wouldn't be going anywhere for the holiday.

And then, on the Thursday before Labor Day, I signed this three-month contract. 24 hours later, we booked a very last-minute Airbnb in Connecticut, at a house steps away from a private beach. And on Saturday morning, we were leaving Brooklyn — I had my toes in the sand less than two days after signing my offer.

I've been carrying multiple weights on my shoulders for the past few months, but finally, one by one, they've started to lift. A call about a potential opportunity, an offer, some brief negotiation, an Airbnb, sitting in traffic on I-95, dipping my toes in the sand, washing the salt water out of my hair.

Each moment marked another weight being lifted, making it clear that maybe all I needed was the safety that income brings and a bit of reprieve from city life.

Who knew?

There is something about being in nature — whether that's in the woods or in the mountains or on the shore — that is deeply restorative. For me, there’s nothing quite like the combination of sand and water nearby to fully ground me, to let my body find full rest.

There's something comforting about knowing we’ve stretched the budget a few more months and have gained some extra time, even if it's not the 'ultimate security' that a W2 paycheck brings.

Can I just live like this? Work contract to contract? Charge enough to cover insurance, to cover the headache of figuring out my own withholding (or to hire the person who will do this for me), to make the risk of not having my next job immediately at the ready worth it? Charge enough to never work in July or August again, and to not have to jump immediately into a new job after one ends? I’ve asked these questions before, but now that I’m staring at my first foray into contract work, this feels like an exploration that could, perhaps, be worth my time.

While I see how this very well can be my reality, there’s also something about the façade of security I can’t quite let go of.

Max Pete said it best in his latest article, The Tech Dream is a Nightmare. He writes:

“I don’t think tech is bad. I just think a lot of us finally see it for what it is.

At its best, tech is a tool. But we were sold it as a religion. A belief system. A way of life. “Move fast and break things” wasn’t just a motto; it was an identity. And now we’re all sitting here among the broken pieces, wondering what, exactly, got better…

…If 2015–2020 felt like the tech industry was alive with possibility, 2023–now feels like it’s on autopilot. And being part of that system is exhausting.

The feeling of being on autopilot is one that I think many people experience in roles that come with golden handcuffs², but reading this articulated how I’ve been feeling about my work in particular for a while and taps into the zeitgeist of collective exhaustion so many of us in the industry are feeling.

Spending Labor Day weekend on the sand, in the water, watching the waves from the balcony, and sharing meals as a family was the perfect culmination of my unemployed summer — and also a perfect send-off to working again. I fell asleep early every night, and while deeply relaxed, I also felt like I couldn’t quite wake up. The past three months of emotion finally settling, my body and mind finally feeling safe enough for true rest. My Oura ring tells me it’s some of the longest (and most restorative) sleep I’ve gotten all year.

Even though I kept my watch off all weekend, I still wasn’t able to get rid of that pesky tan line. It’s better, but not gone. On our second-to-last day, a horseshoe crab washed up on shore. I spent the last 24 hours watching the aftermath. One brave seagull did the bulk of the work for a good meal, then a few more came over to enjoy the fruits of his or her labor. And then a flock of smaller birds (I am sorry, I do not really know my birds, so I did not clock what type they were) came over and picked at what they could.

And on our last day, the shell remained on the shore, and I finally found the courage to walk up to it to see what was left. Not much. There’s probably a metaphor here, though I don’t quite feel like I’m in the mood to find it. I am, perhaps, too close to whatever the metaphor is.

But yes — all that is to say I have a “job”. In quotes, of course, because of the lack of permanency. But that feels like more of a relief than a full-time offer would right now. I think I’m craving being in between for a little bit longer.

But what does this all mean?