The Psychology of Liminal Spaces: Why Empty Places Feel Like Us

You ever walk through your old school at night?

The lights are still on, but just barely—half of them flicker, casting long shadows on the linoleum floor. It’s quiet in a way that feels loud. The kind of silence that makes your thoughts echo back at you. You know this place, but somehow… it feels wrong. Like a dream version of itself. Like you're trespassing in your own memory.

That’s what a liminal space is. A hallway. A parking garage. A hotel lobby at 2am. Empty places in between things. They’re not really meant for us to stay in, but sometimes we do—mentally, emotionally, even spiritually.

And the weird part? These places feel familiar. Like they know something about us we’ve tried to forget. When you’re stuck in your head, when life feels paused, or when the past won’t let go, these spaces start to feel like home.

In this post, I want to explore why. Why these dead malls, decaying motels, and abandoned corridors hit us so deeply—and what they say about our inner worlds. Especially when we’re lost, grieving, or just trying to figure out how to keep going.

2. What Are Liminal Spaces?

A liminal space is a place caught in transition. It’s not where you start, and it’s not where you end up—it’s the in-between. Think: the hallway outside your old math class. A stairwell in a hospital.

A gas station bathroom glowing under a single buzzing light. These are places you’re supposed to pass through, not linger in. But when you stop and actually sit in them, they feel… off.

There’s something haunting about them. They’re familiar, but not comforting. Recognizable, but eerily empty. That’s because they lack purpose when no one’s around. A classroom without students becomes a shell. A mall without shoppers becomes a ghost. Strip away the people, the noise, the intention—and what’s left is a space with no clear identity. And maybe that’s why it feels so much like us, especially in our loneliest moments.

Liminal spaces exploded online for a reason. We started sharing photos of these odd places because they resonated. Not just visually—but emotionally. They reminded us of childhood memories that feel fuzzy, or the awkward limbo of growing up and not knowing where you belong. Aesthetically, they hit different. But psychologically, they hit even deeper.

They feel like the pause between one life and another.

3. The Emotional Mirror: Depression, Derealization & Nostalgia

Liminal spaces don’t just look weird—they feel like something we’ve been through. Or are still going through.

When you’re deep in depression, the world doesn’t feel like it’s moving forward. Days blur. You’re stuck in a kind of emotional waiting room. No clear exit. No clear reason. Just existing—barely. And that’s what these empty hallways, flickering streetlights, and silent school gyms tap into. They mirror that sense of stillness, of emotional flatline.

There’s also derealization—that surreal, detached feeling where the world around you feels like a simulation. Like you're walking through a dream you can’t wake up from. These places, with their off-color lighting and too-perfect symmetry, already feel dreamlike. They don’t play by the same emotional rules. That’s why they connect so deeply with people who’ve felt like they were floating through their own life, watching from the outside.

And then there’s nostalgia—but not the comforting kind. This is the ache that comes from looking back and realizing how much you’ve changed. Or how much you’ve lost. An empty school hallway isn’t just empty—it’s your childhood, long gone. A vacant mall isn’t just abandoned—it’s every Friday night you spent wandering with friends who aren’t around anymore.

These spaces hit hard because they are physical echoes of internal states. They embody grief. Transition. The fear that you’re stuck between who you used to be and who you’re supposed to become—but you don’t know if you’ll ever get there.

They’re not haunted by ghosts.
They’re haunted by you.

4. Why We’re Drawn to These Images

Let’s be real—no one scrolls past a photo of a glowing hallway with no people in it without feeling something. Maybe it’s unease. Maybe it’s nostalgia. Maybe it’s that gut-punch of recognition you can’t quite name.

We’re drawn to liminal images because they speak the language of our inner worlds—especially when we’re not okay. When everything in life feels too fast, too loud, or just too much, these images give us a moment of eerie stillness. They don’t demand anything. They just sit there, echoing the weird emotions we can’t always explain.

And in a strange way, they’re comforting. Because they reflect what so many of us feel but don’t say out loud:

“I don’t know where I am right now… but I know I’m not where I used to be.”
“I feel disconnected, and maybe that’s okay.”
“I miss something I can’t even name.”

Liminal aesthetics let us feel seen without having to say a word. That’s why we binge-watch videos titled ‘empty mall ambience’ or scroll through entire Instagram pages of dead office parks and decaying swimming pools. These places don’t try to fix us. They sit with us. Like a friend who just gets it.

They hold space for the parts of us that are still figuring it out.

5. How Buried Child Fits Into This Feeling

Buried Child isn’t just a clothing brand. It’s a language for people who don’t always know how to speak about what they’re feeling.

You know that dreamlike sense of walking through a place from your past and realizing you’re not the same person anymore? That’s what we design for. The people stuck between growing up and breaking down. The ones who carry grief like a second skin. The ones who feel more at home in a memory than in the moment.

Our pieces aren’t about trends. They’re about texture—emotional texture. Faded prints, distorted words, fractured typography—each detail reflects the mental landscapes we wander when we feel disconnected, anxious, or quietly unraveling.

Wearing Buried Child is like slipping into that eerie familiarity of a school hallway at night or an empty parking garage that echoes louder than your own thoughts. It’s comfort wrapped in discomfort. It’s nostalgia laced with unease. It’s the strange peace of saying: “I don’t feel okay. But I’m still here.”

We don’t make clothes to help you stand out.
We make them to help you feel seen.

If You’ve Ever Felt Like a Hallway With No End…

Some places stay with you long after you leave them.

Not because they were loud. Not because they were beautiful. But because they reflected something inside you—something you didn’t even know needed to be seen.

That’s what liminal spaces do. They echo back the quiet, heavy feelings we carry: the unfinished chapters, the late-night thoughts, the fear that we’re not moving forward fast enough. And somehow, they make it okay. They give us space to just exist, without answers, without pretending.

Buried Child was born from that same space.
From that same silence.
From that same need to feel real in a world that often doesn’t.

So if you’ve ever walked through a dim hallway and felt like you were walking through your own memories… if you’ve ever paused in a parking lot and felt a strange sense of peace in the stillness…
If you’ve ever felt like you don’t quite belong to the past or the future—

This brand was made for you.