Every ending is a new beginning

Lesson #40 of 40 🎉

As I approach 40, I’m embarking on a year-long project to reflect on the lessons I’ve learned in four decades of life. This is the final lesson! You can read the full series here.

We’ve all been here. (Getty Images)

Maybe you noticed this. Or maybe it was just me. At some point in this series, I realized I was writing the same lesson in different ways: Nothing lasts. Not the good weeks, nor the bad ones. Not snow, or relationships, or even your definition of success. The world is ending. We’re all going to die.

Embarrassed, I shared this with my partner, Billy, who shrugged it off, as he tends to do.

“That makes sense,” he said, coolly.

I can’t remember my exact response. I may have just stood there, open-mouthed. But I do remember the frenzied experience in my mind: alarm bells sounding, thoughts short-circuiting, unable to process how my mortifying failure in this year-long series was being met with total nonchalance.

“That’s the lesson in life,” Billy continued. “It’s the thing we all have to accept — learning how to let go. It makes sense that you’d share that in different ways.”

“Oh,” I replied. I think I finally closed my mouth by that point. I thought about how many times I have to hear things — how often my sweet dumb brain needs to be reminded of basic truths — before they really sink in. I felt better about the lessons I’d written.

It’s true: nothing lasts. As they say, all good things must come to an end. Thankfully, so do bad things. But that’s not the end of the story. I can’t tell you what happens after we die, but I do know that the death of everything else gives way to opportunity. Every ending is a new beginning.

Of course, it’s not that simple.

You don’t just turn the page neatly from one thing to the next. After the caterpillar and before the butterfly, there is goo. Did you know this? Inside the chrysalis, the caterpillar dissolves into a soupy, unrecognizable mush before transforming into a beautiful, winged creature.

Becoming something new often looks a lot like falling apart.

We’ve been here, too. (Getty Images)

Writing these last few lessons felt like exactly what I’d hoped for: the ideas came easily, I found time and motivation to put my thoughts to paper, and I felt good about where I landed. I’d cracked the code! The process felt effortless and rewarding — a miracle, as any writer can tell you.

Then I hit the final lesson. And hit a wall. My words and motivation disappeared, replaced by a raging sense of self-doubt.

On Saturday, I spent my precious writing time cleaning. On Sunday, I didn’t even try. By Monday, I woke up in a mild state of panic. Why was this last one so difficult? I’d known from the start that I wanted to write about endings and beginnings. So why couldn’t I?

It was ironic. The series is ending, which means something new is around the corner. That’s the lesson! And yet, I dragged my feet. Because endings are hard. Change is even harder. No one wants to dive headfirst into the goo.

It’s human nature to gloss over the truly challenging parts of life. Our brains soften the edges of trauma and discomfort, perhaps as a survival mechanism, a way to keep going. It’s only when we’re back in the thick of it that we remember how hard transformation really is. And how easy it is to assume we’re the only ones flailing through the mess.

Welcome to the other siiiide. (Getty Images)

In less than a week, I’ll turn 40. A new beginning of sorts. Naturally, I’m looking back on my 30s — a goo-filled decade if there ever was one. I lost my husband and gained a new partner. Said goodbye to a beloved dog and hello to motherhood. Sold two houses, bought another. Set down roots in Florida, only to rip them up and return to Georgia. Achieved professional success, then quit my job. Lost my mind and gained a new perspective. And I wrote and wrote and wrote through it all.

None of that transformation felt poetic in the moment. It was complicated and messy.

When Jamie died, I was 31. I was completely lost and terrified to admit it. Outwardly, I performed my grief through carefully written Instagram posts about the fragility of life. Inwardly, I was a roiling mix of rage, loneliness, guilt, and fear. I drank too much. Told my friends I didn’t want to live. Began dating quickly and erratically. (My first date, just months after Jamie’s death, was with a man who could’ve been his twin. Not long after that, I had sex with a guy named Jaime.)

Sometimes, I look back on that period and feel shame. How messy of me! Why couldn’t I sit with my grief and process it in a safer, wiser way? Realize I couldn’t drink away the pain or replace it with a bizarro version of the man I was terrified to live without? Be open about what I was actually going through?

But now, I see that the mess was the process. It’s what got me to where I am today.

When we think about new beginnings, we tend to envision a clean slate. The return to school, with sharpened pencils and eager anticipation. The first sign of green popping out of the dirt after a long winter. A fresh journal page, crisp and full of promise.

But most beginnings look and feel a lot messier than that. Just ask any exhausted parent learning to care for a newborn. A frazzled employee trying to acclimate to a new job. A heartbroken person piecing their life back together after a breakup. New beginnings are exhausting and overwhelming. It’s no wonder we cling to the familiar, even when it no longer fits. Why put ourselves through all that discomfort?

Because that’s how we grow. Not in spite of the pain, but because of it.

This could be you! (Getty Images)

Remember where this series began? Discomfort is normal — and rewarding. Growth is rarely graceful. But it’s growth all the same.

By the time my next newsletter lands in your inbox, I’ll be 40. I’m entering the next decade of life in a good place: content in my career, happy in my relationship, surrounded by family and friends, and completely in love with being a mom. I’m proud of who I’ve become and grateful for the messy path that brought me here.

Lest you think I’ve reached some enlightened, goo-free state — don’t worry! There’s still plenty of mess to navigate. One of the hardest parts of my life is building something new with a person who, in many ways, is a reminder that Jamie died. Billy is so much more than that, of course. He’s a wonderful dad, partner, and person. He’s funny and creative and challenges me in ways that help me grow. I’m lucky to have found someone who accepts my grief (my goo!) without question. But the reminder will always be there. I will forever miss Jamie. Things will always be a bit messy.

If you are holding onto something — a job, a marriage, a routine, a version of yourself that no longer serves you — you’re not alone. Every ending is a new beginning. But the only way to get there is by wading through the goo. It’s tedious. Sometimes painful. Definitely messy.

But it’s worth it.

Just as I can’t predict what my 40s will bring, I don’t exactly know what’s next for this newsletter. But I trust something beautiful will emerge with time. That I’ll learn many more lessons along the way. And I hope you’ll stick with me through the gooey part.

xoxo
KHG