When It’s Over and We’re Not Yet Done: Learning to Finish Well
SUMMARY: We’re often told to finish what we start—but perhaps this is the time to finish what has already finished. This reflection offers a practical approach to sacred endings: creating space, naming what matters, and engaging gratitude so that whatever comes next can step forward on solid ground.
Holding the Space at the End of Things
I wonder if the success of our starting something new—whether it’s a relationship, a job, a project, or any meaningful pursuit—is directly connected to how we finish what came before.
We often rush into the next beginning not because it’s time, but because we’re bored, discouraged, or restless for the next hit of excitement and novelty. Yet if we’re honest, we often find ourselves cycling through the same frustrations and disappointments, replaying the same storylines with different names and faces. Without realizing it, we carry unfinished endings into new beginnings.
Endings are inconvenient like that. They insist that we slow down.
Even when the season is clearly closing—when the signs are unmistakable, the energy fading, the story complete—we instinctively reach to do something. To fix it, to make meaning of it, or at least to make it productive. Our impulse to act is often a poorly disguised attempt to escape the discomfort of stillness—the unease of simply being at the end of something.
But endings have their own sacred work. They are not problems to solve but thresholds to cross through with honor. The truth is, the most transformative moments at the end of something rarely come through action. They come through a form of inaction—a willingness to linger, to wait, to listen.
There are forces within us—and around us—that cannot be heard above the noise of our motion. They emerge only in stillness. When we resist the urge to push forward, we create space for what is hidden to be heard. These moments are unproductive, and certainly not wasted; they incubate something different and new. Our silence becomes an invitation for the soul to speak.
This is a kind of holy inactivity—what I often call The Practice of Inner Resistance. It is a pause that allows new clarity, emotion, and wisdom to find their way to us in their own time. It’s the quiet drive home after the meeting ends, the walk without headphones, the moment before sleep when memories surface unbidden. These are the places where endings begin to teach.
Many endings are obvious, and we sit stunned by their suddenness—even when we’ve seen them coming or tried to prepare. Others are less certain, leaving us to discern whether a sudden gasp is a signal of revival or simply a final breath. Our minds may understand the logic or science of endings, yet our bodies must still learn the art and journey of them.
The endings we most struggle with are often the ones we cannot control. Most of my police chaplain calls involve the death of a loved one—unexpected and irreversible. I’ve also sat with coaching clients who’ve been laid off, received life-changing health diagnoses, or watched their children grow and leave home—sometimes ending relationship altogether. These are different kinds of endings than those we can plan for, anticipate, or pace on our own terms. The more jarring and uncontrollable the ending, the more important it becomes to honor it well.
And sometimes, what we feel is nothing.
Numbness, emptiness, or disconnection are all part of the emotional palette—especially for those who are only beginning to reconnect with their inner life. Validating that apparent lack of feeling as real and necessary is a crucial first step. With continued patience and curiosity, other emotions—sadness, gratitude, and grief in its many forms—gradually become accessible.
As I write, autumn is giving way to winter. The light shortens, leaves surrender their hold, and nature itself seems to whisper: This too is part of the rhythm of life. Just as fall is the ending of summer, and spring the ending of winter, we are invited into this same rhythm—to let something fall away, to make room for what might come next.
But before we rush to the next beginning, we must remember: endings deserve remembrance. They call us not to productivity, but to presence. Not to fix, but to feel. To honor what was, even as we make space for what might yet be.
Because whatever comes next will be built upon the foundation of what came before. Whether that foundation is strong or fractured, tended or neglected, the next chapter always rests on the integrity of the last. And so it matters deeply how we finish.
The Emotional Landscape of Endings
This truth came alive for me again on a recent chaplain call.
A husband had just lost his wife, and in the midst of deep grief, he made an unusual request: he wanted a full day to wait before calling the funeral home and activating the next steps. He wanted time to grieve—to hold her presence near, to pray, to wait for something sacred to emerge before the machinery of death and logistics took over.
At first, it unsettled me. What would it mean if I left his home, leaving his wife’s body in his and his family’s care for another day? That’s not something I normally do. But the longer I sat with his request, the more it stirred something profound in me. Here was a man refusing to rush past an ending. He believed that something spiritual and meaningful might still need to happen—and that only silence, waiting, and reverence could make space for it.
What kind of people do this?
In this case, immigrants from Ukraine—people not conditioned by the Western pace to “move on.” They carried a different wisdom about endings: that to linger with loss is not morbid, but sacred. That the body of the one loved still bears meaning. That grief itself is an act of love.
This encounter became a mirror for me. How often do I avoid this kind of waiting—both in my own losses and in the lives of those I accompany? How quick we are to fill the space that endings create.
Some of the emotions that surface in these moments are unfamiliar or unpleasant, so we rush to avoid them. Sadness, anger, fear, even gratitude can all feel unskilled, unproductive, or disruptive. But these emotions are essential terrain in the landscape of endings. Grief is not an obstacle to healing—it is the healing. It’s the soul’s way of sorting through what was lost and what still matters.
Grief is an internal, spiritual act of organization and meaning-making. It’s like walking into a disheveled garage or messy attic—sorting through piles of boxes, discovering the treasures among the forgotten or discarded. It takes time, and it cannot be done in haste.
On the far side of grief, anger often arises—not as destruction, but as energy. Anger awakens the will to take new steps, to rebuild, to envision a new future. It’s what allows us to move forward once we’ve faced the loss honestly.
And finally, gratitude emerges—a soft and steady re-centering. Gratitude reconnects us to life. It clears the fog of distress and survival-mode thinking, allowing us to see again the paths ahead. Like a morning mist lifting in the forest, it reveals the many trails one can travel next.
Each of these emotions—grief, anger, gratitude—is part of the sacred work of endings. Together they weave meaning out of loss and prepare the ground for what follows. They build the interior foundation upon which the next chapter rests. And when we attend to that foundation with care, patience, and reverence, we discover that our future—whatever shape it takes—emerges stronger, steadier, and more whole.
Ending Well
The process of ending well revolves around several essential movements.
The first is creating space and quiet—purposefully nudging ourselves into something we’d often rather avoid. There’s no perfect or prescribed time for this work. Endings tend to arrive uninvited, showing up in their own time and on their own terms. Processing endings often interrupts our plans—arriving in imperfect timing, pressing us to pay attention when we feel depleted. No one is ever ready, but can we recognize what our soul is speaking and inviting?
There’s also real power in not doing this work alone. The demand for groups for those who’ve lost a loved one—to death, substance abuse, or divorce—exists for a real and powerful reason. Every ending benefits from being witnessed. Whoever we invite into this process should be someone who can sit calmly in the presence of emotion—who can hold it well, reflect back what they see, and linger without rushing past what feels hard or uncomfortable. We need companions who can catch us when we try to move on too quickly, and who can gently show us the way forward when we feel overwhelmed. If we tend to do life alone, grief will require what feels counterintuitive: companionship. If we tend to never be alone, we will face the parts of our ending that must be journeyed in solitude.
This work can take many forms. It might look like writing down what brought us joy in a season now gone, naming what we will miss, and identifying what we can still be thankful for. Gratitude, even in grief, has a way of drawing light into the shadows.
In my coaching practice, I teach a tool called the Emotional Groundwork Exercise. It helps clients explore what they’re feeling by identifying the core emotion and articulating the core need so they can respond in an effective way. Another tool, The Pathway to Reclaim Perspective, helps bring clarity and movement when a problem clouds or swamps us. When we can find the underlying value, we can tap into an inner momentum that gently nudges us forward. Both offer a way to honor the emotions of grief and anger associated with endings. Through honest reflection, dialogue, and writing, they nearly always lead to the same place: a renewed sense of hopefulness and possibility for the future.
Because when we end well, we don’t just say goodbye to what was; we prepare the ground for what will be. We build a stronger foundation for whatever comes next.
So I leave you with these questions to consider:
What is something that has recently ended for you and left a deep imprint on your soul?
And what is something in your past that you’ve not yet allowed yourself to grieve the ending of?
Perhaps now is the time to pause, to listen, and to linger—trusting that endings, when tended with care, quietly make room for new beginnings.