Lately, we've been talking a lot about the in-between. Not because we planned to. Not because it's trendy or poetic. Because it's where we live right now.

The in-between is leaving behind a life that no longer fits without knowing exactly what comes next. It's selling the house. It's packing everything you own into your SUV. It's driving across state lines carrying equal parts excitement and fear. It's looking around and realizing that you've let go of almost everything except what truly matters most.

We didn't set out to learn piano to become musicians. We weren't chasing mastery or trying to perform. We weren't looking for another goal to optimize.

If anything, we were looking for a place to return to. Something steady. Something that would still be there on the good days and the difficult ones. Something that did not judge.  Something we could get lost in.

We woke up at 2am still feeling jetlagged.  Still on mountain time. Unable to sleep any longer, we decided to get out of bed and explore Tokyo in the early hours of the morning.  So, we grabbed our jackets and camera gear and stepped out into the dark.

Little did we know, it would turn into a moment we’d never forget.

Life had become full in a way that looked good from the outside. There were routines, responsibilities, structure, forward movement. Days filled up quickly and ended the same way. 

And over time, creativity slowly disappeared from daily life without much notice.

At some point, we realized how long it had been since we had created something simply because we wanted to. Not for work. Not for content. Not to check a box.

Just because we felt like making something for ourselves.

There’s a strange period after a big move where life feels suspended between two versions of yourself. You know where you came from.  You know why you left.  But you haven’t fully settled into your new home. Everything feels slightly unfamiliar at first:  The grocery stores. The streets. The routines. The silence. But slowly, almost without noticing, something begins to soften. The roads stop feeling confusing.  The routines begin to form naturally.  The unfamiliar starts to become recognizable.  And eventually, a place that once felt temporary begins to feel like home.

Before the world starts asking for your time, there’s a small window where everything is still yours. No meetings. No expectations. No version of yourself you have to perform. For us, mornings have become a reset.  A chance to slow down. To be present. To enjoy something simple. Coffee. Drawing. Playing piano. But these mornings didn’t always exist.