Soulful Sundays: Endings

“Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.” -Seneca

One of the oldest creation myths from Egypt tells the story of Osiris and his brother Seth. Osiris ruled with order, wisdom, and stability—a model of the positive patriarch. But as time wore on, he failed to notice the slow rise of disorder around him. His brother, Seth, the embodiment of chaos and tyranny, betrayed him, tearing him apart and scattering his body across the underworld.

But the story didn’t end there. Isis, the queen and consort, searched tirelessly for the fragments of Osiris. From what remained of him, she conceived their son, Horus. Horus, born with the sharp vision of a falcon, challenged Seth when the time was right. He lost an eye in the battle but defeated the force of chaos—not by claiming the throne for himself, but by gathering the broken pieces of his father and restoring him. His final gift was the eye he had lost—the one now immortalized in Egyptian hieroglyphs. A symbol of clarity. A symbol of wholeness regained through loss.

Osiris held on too long. He remained committed to a version of reality that had already shifted. That is the danger in resisting endings. The refusal to yield invites disorder, sometimes disguised as loyalty or stability. Yet the world changes anyway. Whether willingly or not, the current moves on.

The fear of endings is rarely about difficulty. It is about identity. What dies with the ending? What part of the self is lost when a relationship, a role, or a dream is released? Nature despises vacuums, and so do human hearts. There is an almost primal need to fill the space immediately, to know what comes next before letting go of what no longer serves.

But psychology offers an unexpected insight: most of what is seen is not really seen at all. It is remembered. The brain builds its understanding of the world through memory. The first time someone walks into a new place, everything is vivid. But after a few visits, perception fades into familiarity. Attention drifts. Navigation becomes automatic. This is why grocery stores follow predictable layouts—the mind relies on habit to function.

Disrupt the layout, though—shift the coolers, move the bread, rearrange the aisles—and suddenly the eyes begin to work again. The mind can no longer rely on what it knew. It must engage. It must see. This is what endings do. They rearrange the structure. They force new awareness. They return vision.

To yield is to remain whole. Yielding is not weakness—it is wisdom. When the grip on what has passed is finally released, movement becomes possible again. Like a boat tied to a dock, drifting only begins once the rope is let go. The current has always been there, pulling gently in a direction aligned with deeper intention. Holding on does not change the river—it only prevents the journey.

Endings are not failures. They are thresholds. And while some may be clean and clear, others are bound to be messy. A firm message. A final decision. A quiet departure. Clarity does not always come with ceremony. But it can come with grace.

The mistake is in thinking there is ever truly an end. In truth, there is only the return to presence. The return to sight. The return to movement.

And somewhere within that movement—something begins.