On crossing the finish line, feeling nothing, and what it means to truly land somewhere.
I did it. The deal is closed. The keys — figuratively and soon literally — are mine. I bought an apartment.
And yet. I’m sitting here, waiting for a feeling that hasn’t shown up yet.
Here’s the thing about trains. If you board in Amsterdam knowing it’s headed to London, you will land in London. That’s the contract. And when you get there, you know it. There are announcements. There’s the sound of a familiar language, the pull of familiar places. There’s a moment where your body catches up with the fact that you have arrived.
When you hit a life milestone, why is it different? Why does the body not announce it the same way?
I’ve been trying to compare this to landing somewhere completely new — stepping off a plane into an unfamiliar city, looking around, taking it in. There’s a kind of openness to that. But when it’s a milestone you’ve been working toward, there’s an expectation layered on top of it. You’re not just supposed to arrive. You’re supposed to feel it.
What if you don’t?
What if others are celebrating around you and you’re still waiting for the feeling to land? What if the milestones are blurring into one another so fast that none of them have weight? Whom do you have to tell for it to become real? What are you actually scared of?
I think part of what I’m feeling is this: I’ve spent a long time chasing milestones. Becoming a citizen of the Netherlands. Buying property. Each one a summit I worked toward — and each one, once reached, revealed another summit already forming on the horizon. So I’m in motion, always in motion, and motion doesn’t pause to feel.
But maybe I’m not numb because I don’t care. Maybe I’m numb because I haven’t actually finished arriving yet. Buying the apartment is real. But there’s still a queue. Documentation, admin, things to fix up, boxes to unpack in every sense. It’s like landing at the airport and being stuck in the passport control line. The country is right there. Freedom is right there. You just have to go through the motions first.
The joy isn’t late. It’s just waiting for the queue to clear.
Here’s what I’ve come to understand — and what I don’t think enough people say out loud. Not feeling it right away doesn’t mean something is wrong with you. It means you’re human.
Think about new mothers. A baby arrives, and the room fills with joy, congratulations, flowers. But many mothers — more than anyone admits — don’t feel an immediate rush of love. The responsibility lands before the magic does. The exhaustion comes before the wonder. We rarely talk about this because it doesn’t fit the story we’re supposed to perform.
Buying a home, becoming a citizen, having a child, reaching a goal you worked years for — these are all moments where the world expects you to glow. But the emotional reality is often quieter, stranger, more complicated. You may feel numb. Flat. Even anxious. That is not ingratitude. That is not failure. That is what it actually feels like to step into something real and significant.
The milestone happens in a moment. The feeling catches up on its own timeline.
What’s worth naming — and what most people don’t — is that the absence of immediate joy is one of the most common experiences around major milestones. You are not alone in the waiting room of your own happiness. Most people are there too. They’re just not saying so.
So I’m holding that. I’m not chasing the feeling or forcing it. I’m acknowledging I’m on a path without someone ahead to follow, and that is both the hardest and the most honest thing about where I am. The feeling will land when the motion slows enough to let it.
TINY EXPERIMENT 1
Write your way forward
Write a short letter to yourself — no more than a paragraph — as if you’re writing from six months in the future. You’re settled. The queue has cleared. What does the apartment feel like now?
Don’t describe the logistics. Describe the feeling of a random Tuesday morning in your own home. The light through the window. The coffee. The quiet that belongs to you. Read it back once, then tuck it somewhere you’ll find it when you’re unpacking. Notice whether writing the feeling forward helps call it into the present.
TINY EXPERIMENT 2
Plant the flag
Humans have always used ritual, ceremony, and celebration to mark transitions — not because it’s performative, but because the body needs a signal. A summit needs a flag. A finish line needs a photograph. Without that moment of acknowledgement, the brain files the achievement away before you’ve had a chance to feel it.
You don’t have to throw a party. But you do have to do something. A few ways to mark a milestone, small or large:
- Call three people and say it out loud: “I bought an apartment.” Hear yourself say the words.
- Book a dinner — just for you, or with someone who was part of the journey.
- Write down three things you’re grateful for that this milestone makes possible.
- Take a photo of something that symbolises it — the door, the view, the contract — and sit with it.
- Create a small gratitude practice and repeat it every time you hit a win, big or small.
Telling everyone may not be your style — and that’s fine. But finding your own repeatable way to acknowledge success is not optional. It’s what trains the body to recognise arrival. Do it once and it feels awkward. Do it every time and it becomes the signal your nervous system was waiting for. Figure out what works for you, and use it for every milestone. That’s how you start to feel the feeling.
Keep moving. The feeling will meet you there. ✦
