Beginnings and Endings

My closest friends have rolled their eyes at me many times over the last few months as I’ve wistfully lingered in endings. I’ve been in an exciting period of newness over the last year, yet struck by how endings always accompany beginnings. I left a community and life I loved in New Haven, but I started an exciting new chapter in Washington. Some days I painfully miss my “old life,” and on other days I’m grateful for how my life today would be unrecognizable to myself a year ago.

“All beginnings are also endings” is perhaps a tired cliche, but you all should know by now that I love finding the seeds of truth in these throwaway phrases. Through this season, I’ve learned how quickly our society tries to run past the messy feelings of endings in search of the giddy joy of newness. There is so much to learn through lingering a little longer in the moments between endings and beginnings.

My students moved out this past weekend, so last night I wandered around my floor peeking into all the empty rooms. Everyone was excited for the summer and the school year to come, but I was moved by the reality of my silent hall. Without the students, it’s just an empty building. With them, it’s a vibrant and quirky community. I decided to linger in the in-between for a little longer than I wanted: I’m relieved that the challenging semester is over, I’m excited for some quiet, and I’m sad to see my neighbors move on. Most of life is found in this beautiful and messy commingling of feelings.

We tend to think of endings as one moment in time, and, in turn, we underestimate how radically endings can shift our identity over time. Endings can be existentially threatening: jobs change, people move away, relationships end, those we love die. These identity shifts often change our sense of self more than we’d like to acknowledge. Who were you then? Who are you now? Who are you becoming?

A few weeks ago I was caught up in the joy of newness and then the wave of ending snuck up on me. I was shocked both that I completely missed the ending of a moment, and that this ending occurred on an otherwise normal afternoon. Grief can come on suddenly in a horrible moment, stay with us for a while, then drift away without us even noticing.

While I may be teased for being too wistful and nostalgic, I encourage you to also linger a little longer in your own endings as they come. Find gratitude for what was and is now lost, even amidst the joy of what’s to come. Straddle the line of ending and beginning for a second longer than feels comfortable before you step into something new.

The 14th century Persian poet Hafez can be your guide:

“Don’t surrender to your grief so quickly. Let it cut you more deeply. Let it ferment and season you as few human or divine ingredients can. Something is missing in my heart tonight that has made my eyes so soft, my voice so tender, my need for God absolutely clear.”

Text copyright © 2023 Grace Woodward. All rights reserved.