The Rhythm of Transformation

We often imagine life as a steady climb—forward progress, upward motion, growth without interruption. But anyone who has spent time in leadership or in faith knows that real transformation doesn’t work that way. Change—true, soul-deep change—rarely follows a straight line.

One helpful framework I use in coach approach retreats and in coaching is William Bridges’ model of transition: letting go, the neutral zone, and new beginnings. It’s a rhythm that mirrors not only human experience but the deeper currents of spiritual life.

That first movement—letting go—is always the hardest. Whether it’s an outdated belief, a role we’ve outgrown, a dream that didn’t unfold as we’d hoped, or simply the illusion of control, we often resist the necessary losses that make room for new life. Letting go is not passive—it’s an act of courage. Like stepping into deep water, it requires trust. And it often begins with permission: to grieve, to rest, to stop striving.

Then comes the neutral zone—that uncomfortable space between what was and what will be. It’s a wilderness season: disorienting, uncertain, full of questions. There’s no clear map, no guaranteed timeline, no obvious next step. Many leaders (including me!) try to skip this in-between space, rushing toward something—anything—new. But the neutral zone is where faith matures. It’s where leadership deepens. It’s where we learn to stay grounded when everything feels up in the air. Lasting transformation always takes root in this space of holy disruption.

Eventually, new beginnings emerge—not by force, but by grace. They arrive slowly, often without fanfare. Like spring after a long winter, they unfold gently. Something deeper, truer, begins to grow. And like all spiritual gifts, these beginnings come not as rewards but as invitations. Our task is not to manufacture them, but to receive them.

This rhythm—letting go, waiting, and beginning again—echoes through every sacred text, every spiritual tradition, and the natural world alike. From the formless void of Genesis to the wilderness wanderings of the Israelites to the return from exile, the path is always the same: loss, liminality, and then life. Even the earth reminds us: perennial growth requires seasonal surrender. Creation begins in chaos. New life stirs in compost.

For spiritual leaders, this isn’t just a helpful framework—it’s a formative one. It shapes us into leaders who are more resilient, compassionate, and real. It teaches us how to walk alongside others through their own seasons of uncertainty and change.

And here’s the truth I’ve learned over four decades of ministry: we resist this process, even when we long for it. We are creatures of habit. We crave clarity. And yet, the most spiritually fertile seasons are rarely the ones we control. They are the ones we yield to.

There is deep spirituality in surrender—in trusting that no part of our leadership journey—no failure, no detour, no season of barrenness—is wasted. One of the wisest truths I’ve come to trust is this: in God’s economy, nothing is wasted. Not the wounds. Not the regrets. Not even the splinters buried beneath years of tough skin. Like compost in a garden, the messiness of our lives can become fertile ground for new growth—if we let it.

Leadership rooted in the Spirit is not about being unshakable. It’s about being perennial. Not static, invincible, or unchanging—but continually made new. Like the iris or daylily, your beauty is not constant but cyclical. You were not made to bloom endlessly. You were made to rest, release, and return—again and again.

The same Spirit that hovered over the chaos at the dawn of creation is still hovering—still creating, still calling. And if we are willing to live in rhythm with that Spirit, we will find ourselves transformed.

Whether you’re guiding an organization, supporting a staff team, or simply trying to lead your own life with integrity, know this: leadership is spiritual work. It requires more than strategy. It asks for soul. May you lead with openness to the Spirit, courage to wait in the wilderness, and faith that what looks like an ending might just be the beginning of something more.