Two days ago, on Christmas, I found myself re-listening to one of my all-time favorite books: Liminal Dreaming by Jennifer Dumpert. She coined that specific term about a decade ago, but the word "liminal" itself is what I want to (eventually) zoom in and focus on.

Liminal dreaming is the dreaming we do while in liminal sleep. Liminal sleep is the combined name for hypnagogia (falling asleep) and hypnopompia (waking up). Every night we pass through these doorways. The dreams here aren't like REM dreams; they are even less defined. They are the space of "half-dreaming" where you might hear someone call your name, hear a door slam, or feel that classic jolt of falling. If you’ve ever noticed your limbs twitching as you drift off, you are in the liminal space.

"Liminal" means to be in transition. To be on the edge. The seashore is a classic liminal space—the cusp of land and sea. It’s not exactly one, and not exactly the other. At the same time, it’s both.

That’s why the liminal is so uncomfortable for many, and outright terrifying for others (think back to those “I’m falling” moments when we jerk ourselves awake like lunatics). Like the seashore, the liminal is a place where it’s difficult to find your footing. It’s hard to find language for a state that isn't clearly defined. And it’s even more terrifying when you are the thing that is neither here nor there—no longer clearly the person you were, but not yet the person you are becoming.

To be honest, I feel at home in the liminal. I’ve spent a lot of time not feeling completely at home in a space, in my life, or in my skin. Scorpio-rich people are known to be at home in crisis spaces and in a constant state of transformation. We tend to start over from scratch the moment we reach the destination. A lot of transformation means a lot of different lives, and a lot of different lives means a lot of time spent in the "in-between."

The reason I’m thinking about liminality now is the New Year. The New Year demands a goodbye to the old year and to the person you used to be. But that’s a catch-22: you have to let go of the old "you" to embody the "you" you want to become, but without a new self to hold onto, letting go feels like stepping off of a cliff. You have to spend some time being, ostensibly, nobody.

Isn’t that just the scariest fucking thing?

But if we refuse that void, we get stuck holding onto an outdated version of ourselves—a version we’ve outgrown or outsmarted. We stay with the partner, the job, or the home that no longer fits because we’re too afraid to float. To move forward, you have to let go. You have to get comfortable being "nobody" for a while.

The ancients knew how terrifying these transitions could be. They knew we shouldn't navigate the darkness between worlds alone. That’s why they recognized the Psychopomp.

Whether it’s Hermes or Mercury, the psychopomp is the guide who can exist in both places at once. They show us the ropes and get us through safely. But as we look toward the New Year, I want to look at the psychopomp through a different lens: hiring a version of yourself to be your own guide.

Think of the next twelve months as a territory you haven't mapped yet. To get through it, you have to "hire" a future version of yourself—one who has already crossed the bridge—to reach back and pull you through. But a psychopomp never works for free. There is always a price. There is always a toll to be paid at the threshold.

The interesting thing about the New Year is that we aren't told what the toll is. We get to choose it. But we must choose something. You cannot carry every single piece of your old self into the next year; if you try to lug all that luggage across the border, you’ll get stuck in the doorway.

The toll might be a habit, a resentment, a specific fear, or a relationship that has run its course. For some of us, choosing what to leave behind is the hardest part of the ritual. We want the new life, but we want to keep the old comforts, too.

The psychopomp stands at the midnight hour and holds out a hand. They are waiting for you to drop the weight. You have to decide right now: What are you willing to leave on the old side of the shore so you can finally find your footing on the new one?

If you’re ready to stop standing in the hallway and finally cross the threshold, you have to pay the toll. You have to decide what stays on this side of the threshold so you don't get stuck in the doorway.

The Psychopomp doesn't care what you leave behind, only that you are light enough to move. Here are three ways to settle your debt with the old year:

In Greek myth, a coin was placed in the mouth of the dead to pay the ferryman. If you are a person who needs a physical anchor to make a mental shift, this is for you.

Since we’re already navigating the "half-dream" states of hypnagogia, use that space as your negotiation room. This is for those who prefer to do their work in the subconscious.

This might be the most difficult one because it requires you to be comfortable being "nobody" for a moment.

The reason we get stuck in the doorway isn’t because the door is locked; it’s because we’re trying to bring the whole house through it. The psychopomp isn’t there to judge what you keep—they are just there to make sure you’re light enough to make the jump.

Choose your toll wisely, or prepare to spend another year standing in the hallway.