A Letter About Change and Uncertainty, Home, and Learning to Trust the Middle

Dear you,

I've been sitting with this letter for a few days now.

There is so much I want to say. So many thoughts swirling around in my head and so many feelings that have been rising and falling over the past couple of weeks, and yet… every time I've tried to write, the words haven't quite landed. Not because nothing has been happening, but because everything has been happening.

I think, if I'm honest, I've been in survival mode.

Just doing what needed to be done: packing, driving, signing, organising, cleaning, reassuring, holding it all together, and keeping myself and my family moving forward through so much uncertainty.

It's only now, as the dust begins to settle, that I've started to notice my breath again. That I've started checking in on how I'm really feeling about this move and reflecting on what it's all meant.

So today, I want to write about change and uncertainty.

About what it really feels like when life shifts. About how it moves through us. About what happens inside us when something that once felt like an idea suddenly becomes real.

What I'm learning more and more is this: we never stay the same.

We are always changing, quietly and slowly, little by little, until one day life invites us into a bigger change and suddenly everything feels louder.

The last two weeks have been full immersion into relocating. Well… if I'm honest, probably the last five months. But the last two weeks made it real.

Our Sydney home was packed up, our life placed into boxes, and everything loaded into containers and sent north. Then there we were, driving to Brisbane, to a home we had bought but hadn't yet lived in. A place we knew on paper, in photos, in plans… but not yet in our bones.

I felt excited and nervous.

My mum has always said those two feelings are actually the same; it just depends on how you choose to see them. So I chose excitement. The adventure. The next chapter. The future we had worked so hard towards.

The day we arrived, we were exhausted.

After six hours on the road, we were tired and emotional, so ready to finally open the door and step inside. I remember pulling up and thinking, "Is this really mine?"

It felt surreal and strange, almost like I was visiting someone else's life. And then the moment came when I finally walked inside this home I had been thinking about for so long… and I didn't feel that rush of "this is home".

And that scared me.

Suddenly, my mind filled in the gaps. What if we've made the wrong decision? Why did we do this? What if this isn't right for us? It started to spiral. Until I stopped, checked in with myself, and realised this wasn't the truth.

It was fear.

False Evidence Appearing Real.

From an NLP and neuroscience perspective, this makes so much sense. Our brain is designed to prioritise safety over growth. When we step into something unfamiliar, our nervous system reads it as "potential danger", even if it's something we consciously want. So it looks for certainty, for proof, for reasons to retreat; not because we're weak, but because our brain is trying to protect us.

At the same time, something else is happening.

Our brain is literally rewiring.

Every new routine, every new street, every new environment, every new habit is creating new neural pathways. This is neuroplasticity in action.

It's uncomfortable at first because it takes more energy. It feels unfamiliar. It can feel like a lot of effort without much return. But with repetition, it becomes home. It becomes familiar. It becomes what we know.

A week in, after scrubbing every wall, every floor, every inch (yes, really 😅), things began to shift. The internal conversations got lighter, and the doubt and questions slowly began to settle.

Now, each morning, I walk downstairs, look at the kitchen, the lounge, the light, and quietly say to myself, "This is home." And each time I say it, my brain begins to learn it.

And it hasn't been only us in the chaos of change; it's been Amelia too.

She has faced a new school, new friends, and new routines. Watching her navigate change has been both beautiful and emotional. Seeing her walk over to the playground, joining in without really knowing anyone, adapting and stretching outside her comfort zone… it took every bit of restraint not to wrap her up. Because I know, in truth, most of those emotions were mine. My own past. My own fears. Not really hers.

We were all meeting new people, figuring out the school halls, the routines, the way things are said, the new layout, and all the new faces. It stretched us in that first week, and that will always be the case when you step into something new.

In NLP, we talk about the Universal Process of Change, and it reminds us that growth is never neat. We start somewhere, we learn, we stretch, we outgrow what once fit, we feel uncomfortable, we wobble, we question, we try again, we integrate, and then we grow.

Most of us struggle in the middle.

That in-between space where you're no longer who you were, but you're not yet settled into who you're becoming. That's where doubt lives. That's where the question shows up: "Have I done the right thing?"

And underneath that is often the big, silent question: "Can I trust myself?"

So many of us were never taught how to sit with that question. How to regulate through it and reframe it. How to listen to it without letting it run the show.

This time, I chose differently.

I said it out loud. I cried to Jorge about my worst fears and whether I could trust myself that we'd made the right decision. I let myself express it. I let it sit with me.

And in the end, that was exactly what I needed. I still didn't have all the answers, but I hadn't buried the burden of that question creeping into my head each night.

A dear friend asked me recently how we were coping through it all. They were our saviours while we scrubbed, repaired, organised, and slowly turned this place into a home. Without them, I don't know what we would have done.

And I've been sitting with his question: "How are you doing it? Staying calm. Holding it all together?"

What I've learned is this: when we acknowledge our emotions, we learn to move through them. When we feel what's coming up, give it space, and ask gentle questions to understand it, we don't suppress it. We don't store it. And that means we can move forward.

Emotion is just energy looking for movement.

My dear NLP teacher sent me a card this week about the blessing of change, about embracing it with open arms, seeing it as an opportunity for growth and transformation, and trusting that change leads us to greater possibilities. And that word is everything.

Trust.

Trusting myself and the decisions I make. Trusting my intuition. Trusting my growth.

This move has reminded me that I always have a choice.

I can resist change, or I can partner with it.

I can fight my nervous system, or I can teach it safety.

I can stay stuck in fear, or I can build new patterns.

That is personal leadership.

That is emotional intelligence.

That is growth.

If you're in a season of change right now, if you're questioning yourself, feeling unsettled, or standing in the middle, please know this.

Your brain is learning.

Your nervous system is adjusting.

Your identity is expanding.

You are learning to trust yourself.

If you're reading this and feeling a quiet "yes" inside… a sense that you'd love support through your own season of change, a desire to understand your mind, your patterns, and your emotional responses more deeply, or a curiosity about learning these tools for yourself or others…

My door is always open.

Whether through one-to-one coaching, where we gently unpack what's really going on beneath the surface, or through NLP Certification, where you learn how to master these tools for life, leadership, and relationships…

You don't have to navigate change alone.

As it turns out, we were never meant to!

With love,

Vikki