By Divya Munjal

Almost everyone I meet asks me the same question.

And every time, it leaves me slightly unsettled:

“So, what do you plan to do next?”

They ask it casually, sometimes kindly, sometimes with curiosity. And yet, each time I hear it, something tightens inside me. Not because I do not have an answer, but because I am not ready to have one.

I stepped away from my job after years of being immersed in work. It was not an impulsive decision. It came after years of being deeply immersed in work, schedules, deadlines and responsibilities that left little room for anything else. I achieved a lot, learned a lot and stayed constantly occupied. From the outside, it looked like progress. From the inside, it began to feel incomplete.

At work, I was always “on.” There was always something waiting: another email, another decision, another deliverable. Even conversations with friends and family often began with, “I am busy right now.” I kept telling myself it was temporary. That things would slow down soon. That I would catch up with my life later.

“Later” never really occurred.

When I finally chose to step away, I expected relief. What I did not expect was the emptiness that followed. And with that emptiness came guilt.

The guilt of not being busy.
The guilt of not having a clearly articulated plan.
The guilt of pausing in a world that celebrates only motion.

For years, my life had structure. My days were measured in meetings, deadlines and outputs. My sense of worth was closely tied to productivity and visible contribution. When that structure disappeared, I realised how much of my identity had been wrapped around it.

Without the constant urgency, time suddenly felt unfamiliar. Mornings were quiet. Evenings were free. There was no immediate demand for my attention. And instead of feeling peaceful, the stillness felt unsettling.

Now, when people ask me what I plan to do next, it feels as though I am expected to replace one role with another instantly. As if a pause needs justification. As if rest must come with a roadmap. As if taking time without a clear destination is irresponsible.

But the truth is simpler and harder to accept: I am in a transitional phase of my life.

This phase does not look productive from the outside. There are no milestones, no announcements, no visible achievements. It is made up of slow mornings, long walks, unfinished thoughts and questions that do not yet have answers.

Silence feels heavier than activity, not because something is wrong, but because I am finally listening.

What makes this phase difficult is not the absence of work. It is the presence of expectations. We live in a culture that is deeply uncomfortable with stillness. We respect burnout more than rest, urgency more than reflection. We admire people who are busy, even when they are exhausted. “Pausing,” on the other hand, is often seen as “falling behind.”

So when I say, “I am taking some time,” it sounds insufficient. When I say, “I am figuring things out,” it feels like a confession. Slowly, unintentionally, guilt finds its way in.

But I am beginning to understand something important: this guilt is borrowed.

It does not come from my inner voice. It comes from years of conditioning that taught me to tie worth to output, identity to titles and stability to constant doing. Stepping away challenges that narrative, and discomfort is a natural response.

What surprises me most in this phase is not my own uncertainty, but how uncomfortable it makes others.

People do not believe that I could leave without a concrete plan in hand. That I could choose pause before preparation. That I could trust myself enough to step into space without immediately filling it with the next role, the next title, the next timeline.

Perhaps this disbelief comes from fear. Planning before pausing feels safer to everyone. It reassures them that uncertainty can be controlled, that life must always move in neat, predictable lines. A pause without a plan threatens that illusion.

But I come from an industry where there was barely time to think beyond schedules and deadlines. Days blurred into each other. Productivity became muscle memory. I responded faster than I reflected. Somewhere along the way, the ability to pause, to truly think, quietly slipped away.

How could clarity come before silence, when silence itself is what creates clarity?

This break is not absence.

It is space.

Space to think without urgency.
Space to feel without judgment.
Space to reconnect with parts of myself that were overshadowed by constant responsibility.

Space to notice small things again: a meaningful conversation, a quiet evening, a shared laugh, a sense of being present. These moments do not announce themselves as success, yet they quietly nourish us.

I know I will figure something out. I trust that what comes next will be better aligned than what came before. But for that better version to take shape, I need time and space. I need permission from myself, more than anyone else.

When people ask what I am doing now, I am learning not to rush my answer into something more acceptable. I am learning not to shrink my pause to make others comfortable.

Sometimes, “I am taking a pause” is complete in itself.

Not every phase of life is meant for execution. Some are meant for listening. Some are meant for unlearning what you have already learnt. Some seasons of life exist purely for inner growth, not for productivity, recognition or clarity, but for transformation that unfolds slowly and invisibly.

If you are reading this and find yourself in a similar situation—between roles, between identities, between certainty and curiosity—please remember this: you are not behind. You are not failing. You are not wasting time.

You are in transition.

Transitions are not empty spaces. They are the quiet places where becoming happens.

So yes, I am pausing.

And yes, I am allowed to.

Author’s note

This piece was written during a pause—a phase without clear answers, but full of quiet questions. It is not meant to offer solutions, only to name an experience many of us move through silently. If these words feel familiar, you are not alone.