“I don’t think you’ve ever experienced a good ending,” my therapist said, as we once again discussed ending our work together. As usual, I had become weepy at the mere suggestion that it was time.
A good ending? What was that? How was it even possible? He kindly assured me that we could explore my questions together, and in doing so, we would take a look at the ways I had experienced endings to date. Then, when the time felt right for both of us, we would have a good ending to our therapeutic relationship.
This felt suspicious to me since, years before, my former therapist had abruptly informed me, “This is our last session,” declaring we’d accomplished our goals and our work together was finished. I left her office and stood on the stoop outside the building feeling dazed and confused. Suddenly the good work we had done felt diminished and I felt dismissed. This embodied memory surfaced as my current therapist continued speaking, and I had to assure myself that this was no reenactment; instead, he was inviting me to intentionally engage endings in a brand-new way.
Upon reflection, I saw that many of the endings I had experienced had been abrupt, bringing with them a sense of shock. The sudden departure of a favorite teacher. The phone call conveying tragic news. The untimely death of someone far too young. Each of these left me reeling with a swell of grief that felt engulfing and little sense of how to process the loss.
What could have possibly made these abrupt endings good? Only the presence of another. Someone willing to sit with me in my sorrow, honor my tears, and patiently bear my grief.
Other endings had happened without acknowledgement, just a disappearance, leaving me with a sense of abandonment. The longtime friend who stopped calling. The beloved book club that petered out. The relative who no longer came to Thanksgiving dinner. I was still there, still showing up, still at the table…where were they? The end had occurred with nary a word.
If only these endings had held courageous naming rather than cowardly ghosting, then perhaps they could have led to something good—some truth, some honor, some repair.
Still other endings came with personal indictments, leaving me with a sense of shame. “You’ve changed.” “You want too much.” “You know what you did.” (I didn’t.) Words like these pierced my heart like arrows hitting their mark, leaving me believing, “I’m the problem. It’s me.” I became wary of showing up in my fullness, lest I provoke further accusations.
Can finger pointing lead to anything other than rupture?
What if we were less apt to blame and more inclined toward curiosity; less hasty to rebuke and more willing to forgive?
Finally, some endings happened simply because it was time—no drama, no trauma, but difficult nonetheless. The curtain fell on the final performance of the school musical. Time with cherished friends came to a close. A bucket-list trip reached its inevitable end. Historically, I have begun a countdown for these endings long before they’ve been in sight, sabotaging the joy of the present moment.
Some people refer to this practice as anticipatory grief. What if I didn’t forsake the gift of the moment by dreading its eventual end? Could I mitigate the sting by focusing on the sweet?
My therapist and I discussed all of these endings and more over a lengthy stretch of time, and eventually, we decided to schedule our last appointment. I felt fine about it…until a few weeks passed. Then, I noticed I was feeling unsettled, panicky, upset. I sent him an email naming these feelings, and he promptly replied, “I’ll see you on Friday. Usual time.” I clearly had more to learn about trusting that endings could be good.
When I entered his office that Friday, I was met by his broad smile and kind eyes. Without any judgment or exasperation, he picked up where we’d left off, exploring the anomaly of a “good ending.” Over time, I began to entertain the hope that such an ending might, after all, be possible, and I started to cultivate a vision for what such an ending might look like. It would include intentionality—knowing, naming, and honoring—as well as courage, honesty, and vulnerability.
When the time came for our work together to end—for real, this time—I knew it and named it. In that moment I felt unexpectedly calm, certain, and ready. I asked for one final appointment with an unusual request—could I be the one to lead our time together? He graciously said yes.
I will forever remember that appointment as a good ending. With intentionality, I entered the time to name, bless, and honor this man who had led me into and through deep, dark waters that I feared would sink me. He had seen me through unexpected trials and loss, and he had shepherded me into spacious places of healing and restoration. With my tears and my words, I brought our time together to its conclusion. And I left his office less fearful of endings, for I had experienced the great gift of a good one.
Weekly Editor
Susan Tucker is a lifelong lover of story, and with curiosity and openness, she often explores in her writing the tension that life holds. A former English teacher, Susan loves meaningful use of language, especially when used to stir the soul and whet one’s appetite for more truth, goodness, and beauty. Compelled by a burgeoning interest in trauma recovery, she pursued training at The Allender Center, completing the Certificate in Narrative Focused Trauma Care, Level I and Level 2. Susan and Tim, her husband of 30 years, are the parents of two sons, now young adults, and are adjusting to a nest that, while different, is far from empty.nbsp
