Posted by Eric Wilson
I sat across from my wife last night feeling completely formless.
Not depressed. Not anxious. Not even particularly sad. Just… flat. Like I was soup instead of a person.
“What do you want to do this weekend?” she asked.
I had no idea. Not because I was avoiding the question, but because I genuinely couldn’t access desire, imagination, or direction. I was just… existing.
If you’ve ever felt this way—peaceful but purposeless, calm but uninspired, present but can’t imagine the future—you’re not broken. You’re in the void, and it’s the most important stage of transformation that nobody talks about.
The Metamorphosis Nobody Mentions
Everyone loves talking about the caterpillar and the butterfly. The struggle, then the glory. Before and after. Problem and solution.
But nobody talks about the middle—that terrifying stage where the caterpillar has dissolved into liquid but the butterfly hasn’t formed yet. Where you’re literally soup inside a chrysalis, neither what you were nor what you’re becoming.
That’s where I am right now. And if you’ve been doing deep inner work, healing trauma, shifting consciousness levels (what I explore in “The Attention Compass”), there’s a good chance that’s where you are too.
What the Void Actually Feels Like
In my book, I describe nine levels of consciousness. Most people spend their lives bouncing between Levels 3-5 (Apathy, Fear, Desire), occasionally touching Level 6 (Anger) or Level 7 (Acceptance).
But when you’ve genuinely shifted to Level 7-8 (Acceptance/Peace) and your nervous system is reorganizing around that new baseline, there’s this in-between stage. I call it Level 6.5—the void.
Here’s what it feels like:
- You’re not anxious, but you’re not excited either
- You can engage when needed, but nothing feels particularly compelling
- You’re grateful for small things, but can’t imagine big things
- You’re present, but directionless
- You’re peaceful, but also… blank
It’s not apathy (Level 3)—you’re not resigned or cynical. It’s not depression—you can still function, connect, even laugh. But something fundamental is missing: the spark of desire, imagination, forward momentum.
Why This Happens During Transformation
Your old identity operated on borrowed energy—external validation, others’ reactions, performance-driven dopamine hits. That caterpillar fed off the world around it.
When you start generating internal coherence (what happens when your three brains—gut, heart, head—align), you don’t need external fuel anymore. But your new energy system isn’t fully online yet.
So you’re in this gap: the old fuel source is gone, the new one isn’t flowing consistently. You’re running on minimal power while the system rewires itself.
The void feels like nothing is happening. But everything is happening—underneath the surface, out of your conscious awareness, your entire operating system is being rebuilt.
The Pressure from People Who Love You
Here’s what makes the void so hard: the people around you don’t understand it.
They see you sitting peacefully and wonder, “Is he depressed? Is the medication making him numb? Where did his energy go? Should I be worried?”
My wife Michelle married the performer—the guy who filled rooms with energy (borrowed though it was), who always had ideas and plans and spark. Now she watches me sit in stillness and I can feel her concern: “Is he okay? Does he still want things? Are we still building a life together?”
Her concern isn’t unfair—it’s legitimate. She can’t see the chrysalis. She just sees the caterpillar stopped moving.
The Two Things That Help
1. Small, visible evidence of direction
You can’t force the transformation to complete faster. But you can show the people who love you that the stillness has purpose.
For me, that’s looked like: planning a Disney trip for Michelle and Aidan. Working on blog content from my book. Suggesting a family walk on a beautiful evening. Small actions that emerge naturally from stillness, not forced busyness to prove I’m “okay.”
These aren’t goals or ambitious plans. They’re just evidence that the void isn’t emptiness—it’s pregnant pause.
2. Gratitude for existence itself
Multiple times daily, I stop and find the smallest thing to be grateful for. Not “I’m grateful for my house” or big conceptual things. More like: “In all of existence, I’m alive right now to witness this moment. What a blessing.”
That simple practice brings my vibrational frequency back up when I notice I’ve dropped. It reminds me that the void isn’t absence—it’s the space where something new can form.
What the Caterpillar Would Say at 70%
If the caterpillar could talk mid-transformation, here’s what it would say:
“I’m liquid. I have no form. I remember being a caterpillar but I’m not that anymore. I can sense I’m supposed to become something else but I can’t imagine what. I’m just… soup. Waiting. And it’s excruciating because there’s no timeline, no progress bar, no way to know when this will be over.”
That’s the void. Neither here nor there. No landmarks. No clear direction. Just trust that the chrysalis knows what it’s doing even when you don’t.
The Question You’re Really Asking
When you’re in the void wondering “What’s wrong with me? Where is my imagination? When will I feel excited about life again?”—you’re actually asking: “Is this legitimate transformation, or am I fooling myself?”
Here’s how you know the difference:
If it’s apathy (Level 3): Connection feels pointless. Engagement feels performative. You’re withdrawing from life because “what’s the point?”
If it’s the void (Level 6.5): You can still engage authentically when present. You feel genuine gratitude for small things. You’re just… between identities, and it feels blank because there’s nothing to grab onto yet.
I tested this yesterday. I stopped myself mid-worry and felt genuine appreciation for existence itself. My frequency lifted immediately. That’s not apathy—that’s transformation.
How Long Does the Void Last?
There’s no timeline. The butterfly emerges when the transformation is complete, not when the caterpillar gets impatient with being soup.
Fighting the void, trying to force inspiration, wondering “what’s wrong with me”—that extends it. The chrysalis needs surrender to the formlessness, not resistance to it.
I wish I could tell you “three more weeks” or “another month.” But transformation doesn’t work that way. It works on its own schedule, and your job is to trust the process even when you feel like liquid.
What Comes After
I don’t know what my butterfly self looks like yet. I can’t imagine it because imagination requires either past references or future vision, and I’m suspended between both.
But I know this: the spark I had in my 20s and 30s was borrowed fire—bright but unsustainable, requiring constant fuel from others. Whatever emerges from this void will be my own steady flame—able to warm others when appropriate, but not needing them to keep burning.
That’s not loss. That’s evolution.
If you’re in the void right now—peaceful but directionless, calm but uninspired, present but formless—you’re not broken. You’re not regressing. You’re not stuck.
You’re soup. And soup is exactly what you’re supposed to be right now.
The wings are forming. You just can’t see them yet.
In the void between who you were and who you’re becoming? You’re not alone, and you’re not broken. You’re transforming. Connect at eric@theattentioncompass.com
Eric Wilson, author of “The Attention Compass,” writes about the transformation stages nobody warns you about—especially the terrifying middle where you’re liquid instead of form.