Liminal describes something that exists in between two states, like standing in a doorway between rooms or experiencing that strange feeling between being awake and asleep.

When you're in a liminal space or time, you're neither here nor there. The week between Christmas and New Year's feels liminal because you're between the old year and the new one. The first day of middle school feels liminal because you're not quite an elementary student anymore, but you're not yet settled into being a middle schooler either. A waiting room is a liminal space: you're not where you came from, and you're not yet where you're going.

Artists and writers often explore liminal moments because they're full of possibility and uncertainty. That moment before a race starts, when runners are frozen at the starting line, is liminal. So is dusk, which is neither day nor night, or an empty mall after hours, which still looks like a place for people but has no one in it.

These in-between moments can feel eerie or exciting, uncomfortable or full of promise, because the old certainties have ended but new ones haven't quite begun.