When a caterpillar enters its cocoon, something remarkable happens. It doesn't simply grow wings. It dissolves. The caterpillar's body breaks down almost entirely into liquid – a formless, unrecognizable state that contains neither what it was nor what it's becoming. The old structure must be released completely before the new one can form.
This is the goo. And it's not a malfunction. It's the mechanism of transformation itself.
What you're experiencing in the messy middle of your own transition is a version of this process. The old identity – all the ways of being that defined you for decades – is dissolving. Not because something went wrong. Because something is going right.
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