Right between the moment something falls apart and the moment you figure out your plan, there’s a gap — and it’s filled with the unknown. And it usually arrives with a side of nausea.
When you don’t know your next destination, the milestones, or even the way forward, your tummy aches, hormones stage a mini rebellion, and suddenly you’re clutching at the nearest safety net like it’s the last vest on the Titanic.
And the unknown brings with it a few uninvited guests. Ah, this happens to me every time I muster the enthusiasm to meditate. I tell myself, today is the day — sit down, take a few long, dramatic breaths.. and then, just as I think it’s working, the entire cast of Cirque du Soleil tumbles in — each with its own loud personality, a trick to show off, all pulling in different directions, each fighting for my attention. It turns into a Delhi-style traffic jam in my head, where useless thoughts march in like spam emails — relentless, tacky, multiplying by the minute.
And then the “what-ifs” descend from above — dramatic, merciless, until your heart is pounding loud enough to drown out reason. The void becomes a danger zone. Instinct kicks in: we cling to safety, dodge the need to act, put off what needs to be done, and hide inside the soft cocoon of a Friends episode you’ve already seen twelve times.
But honestly — where’s the fun in that?
I was reminded of this recently when I met Nathan Wisdom. We bonded instantly over our love for Italians and their unapologetic devotion to joy: the dinner parties that refuse to end, the scandalously ripe San Marzano tomatoes, the chili oil that interrupts every bite with a raised eyebrow and a reset to the palate, the laughter so loud it shakes the glasses and wakes the neighbors. Somewhere between the tomatoes and the philosophy, Nathan dropped it casually: “Oh, I’ve written a book. Would love your perspective.”
Maybe he meant it, maybe he didn’t — either way, I took it seriously. I bought the book, waited for Amazon to deliver it, and then let it sit on my desk like a dare. Days passed until one evening felt “right”. Lights dimmed. Blanket pulled. Tea steaming. Chapter One.
I read the entire book, but one sentence has stayed with me ever since. And this one I’ve kept in the vault because it’s not disposable. It’s a treasure.
It’s not the kind of line you casually highlight with a Sharpie and move on. No — this is the line you rewrite in your diary, screenshot and add to your Google Keep, toss into random conversations just to hear other people’s interpretations. You circle it, revisit it, wrestle with it — until suddenly you’re halfway out the shower, shampoo still in your hair, shouting Eureka!
Here it is:
“What is this creating space for?”
Simple. Innocent. Annoyingly brilliant. Devastatingly effective.
When there is a void — when something fails, when life doesn’t go your way, when expectations crumble — we default to the dark side, the victim’s corner. We sprint to the negative and leave no room for anything else. The script writes itself: despair takes over, hope exits mid-show, and in Bridget Jones’ case, it leads to a pint of dark chocolate ice cream.
But this question changed everything. Suddenly, you can actually put down that Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge and ask yourself: what is this situation creating space for? Something else? Something out-of-box? Something that will only connect the dots later?
This innocent little question has widened my thought process, stretched my tolerance, and flipped negatives into possibilities.
A plan fails? A door slams? A path disappears? Fine. I’m no longer willing to stay down.
My old mantra was: get up, dust off, and do it again. Now it’s evolved: get up, dust off, have a little ice cream, do it again — and also ask, what space just opened up for me?
And that shift has turned the unknown from something terrifying into something strangely soothing. No longer nausea, but anticipation. No longer a void, but a clean slate. A blank sheet of paper. A mischievous land of opportunity.
Not an end. A beginning. Not a void, but a launchpad.
ROOHISM 