The Process of Closure: Embracing the Death of What Was

Every closure is a death.

I've written those words before, and I still believe them. But I think I understand them differently now.

When we hear the word death, our minds naturally go to physical death. The loss of someone we love—a spouse, a child, a dear friend, a family member, a beloved pet. Those losses change the landscape of our lives in ways that can be impossible to put into words. But there are other deaths we experience throughout a lifetime too. The end of a relationship. A job. A friendship. A dream. A belief. A version of our future we were certain would happen. Sometimes it's the loss of a perspective or an identity we've carried for years. Sometimes it's simply realizing we aren't the person we used to be anymore.

Something ends, and whether we consciously recognize it or not, something within us changes with it.

I used to think about closure as the bridge between who we were and who we were becoming. I still love that image, but I've come to realize we can spend a hell of a lot longer standing on that bridge than we expect. Because the person you were before a significant loss isn't exactly the person standing here afterward.

How could you be?

You've experienced something. You've loved something. You've lost something. You've learned something. Maybe you've had your heart broken. Maybe you've discovered a truth you can no longer unknow. Maybe you've made a choice that changed the direction of your life. Whatever happened, it became part of you.

And I think that's an important part of understanding closure. Closure isn't about getting back to who you were before because there is no going back to who you were. How could there be? Every moment changes us. Every experience becomes part of the person standing here now. Even if you could somehow recreate the exact circumstances of a time before, you would enter them as the person who has lived everything that happened since.

So maybe the invitation was never to get back to yourself. Maybe it's to meet yourself here and discover who you are now.

In nature, we understand cycles. Things bloom, flourish, wither, die, rest, and eventually something new begins. We don't stand over a tree in January yelling, For fuck's sake, you've had plenty of time. BLOOM. 😂 We understand that winter has a purpose.

And yet we can be incredibly impatient with our own winters.

We want to know when we're going to feel better, when we'll be over it, when we'll stop thinking about them, when the grief will lift, when we'll know what's next, when we'll finally have closure. We want to move on because standing in the middle of something without knowing where it's going can be really fucking uncomfortable.

But maybe the space between death and rebirth isn't something we're supposed to hurry through. Maybe sometimes the in-between is the process.

There is a word for this space: liminal. It's the threshold between what was and what hasn't fully become yet. And liminal spaces can be uncomfortable as hell because there isn't always something solid to grab onto. The old doesn't fit anymore, but the new isn't clear yet.

That's when the questions start. Who am I without this person? Who am I without this relationship? Who am I if this dream doesn't happen? Who am I if I no longer believe what I used to believe? Who am I if the life I imagined isn't the life I'm actually living?

We want answers because answers feel safe. But sometimes there aren't answers yet. Sometimes we're simply standing on the bridge.

This is one place where my understanding has softened. I used to think resisting closure meant we were clinging to the past—dragging our feet like a child who refuses to leave the playground, holding onto what was instead of opening ourselves to what could be. And sometimes that's absolutely what we're doing. I've done it.

But sometimes what looks like holding on is actually grieving. Sometimes we're revisiting memories because we're integrating them. Sometimes we're still asking questions because something inside us hasn't made sense of what happened. Sometimes we're longing for what was because what was mattered deeply to us. That doesn't mean we're doing closure wrong. It means we're human.

I think there is a difference between allowing ourselves to grieve what was and building our entire life around wishing it were still here. We usually know the difference when we're willing to become quiet enough to listen. One honors the past. The other asks the past to become the present again. And maybe closure begins somewhere inside that distinction.

Closure doesn't require us to erase what happened or stop loving what we've lost, and I think that's especially important when we're talking about people. There are relationships that end and still contain love. There are people who die whom we will love until our own last breath. There are friendships we outgrow that still hold beautiful memories. There are dreams that don't become reality but still shaped the person we became while pursuing them.

We don't have to diminish any of that in order to move forward.

Maybe closure isn't closing a door and pretending the room behind it never existed. Maybe closure is being able to walk forward without needing to keep living in that room. You can visit. You can remember. You can grieve. You can laugh at something that happened there. You can be grateful. You can even wish some things had happened differently and still continue becoming.

Because moving forward doesn't erase what came before. It couldn't. It's already part of you.

Birth-Death-Rebirth This cycle shows up everywhere once you start paying attention. Something begins, something exists for a season, something ends, there is an in-between, and eventually something else begins to emerge.

But rebirth doesn't always arrive with fireworks and a dramatic announcement from the Universe. Sometimes rebirth is incredibly quiet. It's the morning you realize you didn't think about it first thing. It's noticing that something which once triggered you doesn't have the same charge. It's hearing yourself say I want... instead of I wish things had... It's laughing again without feeling guilty. It's becoming curious about the future. It's realizing you're making choices based on who you are now instead of who you were then.

Sometimes you don't even recognize rebirth until you're already standing inside it. And I love that because it means we don't have to force it.

What if closure isn't something you find? We talk about closure as though it's a missing object. I just need closure. As if somewhere out there is the conversation, apology, explanation, understanding, or final piece of information that will allow everything to click into place.

Sometimes those things help. An apology can matter. A conversation can matter. Understanding what happened can matter. But I'm not sure someone else can actually hand us closure. Maybe they can give us information. Maybe they can take accountability. Maybe they can answer questions or help repair something that was left unfinished. But the integration still happens within us.

Maybe closure isn't something we find at all. Maybe it's something we slowly become ready for. Not because we've stopped caring or because we've forgotten, and certainly not because we've successfully turned every painful experience into some beautiful spiritual lesson. Maybe it's simply because somewhere along the way, we stop requiring the past to be different before we allow ourselves to be here now.

And maybe that's the rebirth.

Not leaving behind everything that was, but carrying forward what belongs with us while finally allowing the rest to remain where it happened.

So if you're somewhere in the process of closure right now, maybe you don't need to ask yourself whether you're holding on or ready to move forward. Maybe that's too binary for something this human. Maybe simply ask yourself: What am I still grieving? What am I integrating? What am I ready to carry with me? And what might I finally be ready to set down?

You don't have to know what's waiting on the other side of the bridge, and you don't even have to be ready to cross it today. But perhaps you can become curious about who is standing on it now.

Because whoever you were when this began isn't exactly who you are anymore. Something has already changed. And somewhere within that change, even if you can't see it yet, something new may already be beginning.

Huge hugs & divine love,
Morgan