Difficult Art of Ending

If Steve Jobs hadn’t been fired from his own company, he might never have invented the iPhone. In the mid-80s Apple Inc. got rid of its founder – a visionary who for many was the face and embodiment of the brand. Jobs was left with nothing – publicly humiliated and convinced that his career was over. Only later did he understand that it was precisely in this extremely difficult situation, in the feeling of emptiness and abandonment, that he found something he had not fully experienced before – freedom and independence. He founded NeXT and bought a small animation studio that eventually became Pixar Animation Studios. A few years later he returned to Apple as a completely different person – no longer a rebel, but a leader who knew that a humiliating ending could simultaneously be a spectacular beginning of a new, fascinating path. Jeff Bezos also had a comfortable future ahead of him. At the age of thirty he worked at an investment fund on Wall Street, earned well and steadily climbed the career ladder. Everything indicated that his life would be prosperous, peaceful and predictable. But one day he came across a report about the growing number of Internet users and realized that if he didn’t take the risk now, he would always wonder “what if”. He quit his job, sold his stocks, loaded things into his car and headed to Seattle to start a company shipping books ordered online from his parents’ garage. That’s how Amazon.com, Inc. — one of the giants of the global market — was born. Andrea Bocelli long tried to live as others expected of him. He earned a law degree, found a good job in a law firm. But in the evenings, he sang in bars and cafés – for few people, for himself, from the need to break out of everyday life which stifled and overwhelmed him. Finally, he came to the moment when he realised he could no longer live a double life. He resigned from the legal career, though no one guaranteed his success on the stage. Today his voice is recognised the world over, and Bocelli went from a promising lawyer to a favourite of music-lovers. Meanwhile Taylor Swift for years embodied American success. The young girl with a guitar, who conquered the country scene in Nashville, became a global brand and the face of the record label Big Machine Records. Until she discovered she didn’t own the rights to her own songs – that everything she created formally belonged to someone else. This was the moment when she could have become a victim of the system, like hundreds of artists before her. Instead, she decided on a step that seemed absurd: she re-recorded all her albums, now on her own terms. She regained not only her copyright, but symbolically – her own voice.

Each of these stories begins similarly – at the moment when something had to end. Breaking a contract, leaving a position, risking the loss of what gave a sense of meaning and stability. Jobs lost the company, Bezos – prestige and a steady salary, Bocelli – a sense of security, Swift – part of her body of work and her own identity. But it was precisely these “losses” that became the start of everything that later brought them success. What at first glance looked like failure was simply the end of a chapter that needed to be closed so that the next could arise. Ending is an act of courage – but not a spectacular one, with fanfares and a lofty slogan about a “new beginning”, but a quiet, internal, fully conscious one and accompanied by justified doubts. It is a moment when someone acknowledges that they have ceased to be themselves in what they do, and decides to leave, even though no one guarantees that outside awaits something better. In a world that teaches us how to start – to build, to conquer, to advance – few teach us how to finish. And yet it is often ending that is the hardest part, but it can also be simultaneously the most creative part of life.

A Brain Wired for Continuity, Not Goodbyes

Ending is never simple. Psychologists would say that our minds are wired for continuity, not separation. The brain, which for thousands of years has learned to avoid risk and loss, reacts to change as if it were a threat. That’s why we often defend ourselves from it by rationalizing our doubts: “it’s not the right time yet,” “things might change,” “I’ll try again, but now isn’t the right moment.” We stay in relationships that fade slowly, like a candle burning out. We entrench ourselves in habits that long ago lost their meaning and now merely give the illusion of stability. We cling to rituals that make us feel in control of our lives and seem to impose order on our daily existence. Not everyone can make a clean cut — from people, places, things, habits. Not because we are weak, but because ending is, in essence, a kind of mourning — for our own expectations, for the past image of ourselves, for a world that was supposed to last, and in which we were supposed to last as well. Not because we lack strength, but because every change requires dismantling the existing order and, along with it, reprogramming ourselves. That is precisely why ending can be so painful: it’s not just the loss of something tangible and material, but the loss of a role, an identity, a rhythm we have functioned within for years. And even though part of us whispers that it’s time to move on, we need time to accept that something has truly ended. It is in this tension — between the need for change and the attachment to what was — that the hardest part of every separation takes place.

Remaining in what is familiar, even when it already feels suffocating, has its own deceptive logic. The brain dislikes the unknown — not because it fears the future, but because it lacks a ready-made map for it. Our decisions are rarely fully rational. They are guided by mechanisms that were meant to protect us but now often hold us back. One of them is the sunk cost effect — the more we’ve invested in something, whether time, emotions, or money, the harder it is to let go. Walking away feels like wasting our effort, so we stay, hoping it will somehow “pay off.” Another mechanism that makes separation difficult is loss aversion — the phenomenon described by Kahneman and Tversky, according to which the pain of losing is felt about twice as strongly as the pleasure of gaining. We prefer to hold on to something that has lost its value rather than start from scratch, even if doing so could bring us far greater rewards. There is also the status quo bias — a deeply rooted tendency to preserve what is familiar. Research shows that even when a new option is objectively better, most people still choose what they already have. Not because it’s good, but because it’s known. The brain encodes the familiar environment as safe, even when it is objectively toxic or disadvantageous. In this way, habit becomes a trap, and routine — a form of emotional numbness.

Fear of judgment also strongly affects our ability to make radical decisions. In a culture where a person’s value is measured by efficiency, loyalty, and “delivering results,” deciding to end something is often perceived as failure. Yet psychology clearly shows that the ability to let go is one of the hallmarks of emotional maturity. It’s an act of conscious recognition of one’s limits — an acknowledgment that continuing would only prolong an illusion. Persistence is also tied to cognitive dissonance — we don’t like to admit that something we believed in no longer works. If for years we’ve told ourselves that a relationship “makes sense,” it’s difficult to suddenly accept that it doesn’t. We cope with this dissonance not by changing the situation, but by changing the story: “he’ll change,” “it’s just a rough patch,” “every relationship has its crises.” People form attachments not only to other people, but also to places, objects, and daily rhythms. Even what exhausts us can feel safe — because it’s predictable. That’s why change requires not only a decision but also an emotional recalibration: allowing ourselves to feel the emptiness left by the old order. From this perspective, staying in something that’s ending is not irrational — it’s an attempt to protect our sense of identity. Every act of letting go is a micro-death of some part of us — the part that was with someone, believed in something, lived by a certain story. And death, even symbolic, is what humans fear most. That’s why we so often choose the discomfort of the familiar over the risk of the new. Only when the suffering of staying becomes greater than the fear of change do we finally begin to act. 

The Biology of Attachment

Our difficulty with ending things isn’t just psychological — it’s also biological. The brain is an organ built for survival, not for change. In moments of loss, it activates the same neural centers that respond to physical pain. Research by Naomi Eisenberger from the University of California shows that social rejection or separation stimulates the anterior cingulate cortex — the same brain area that lights up when we experience a burn or a cut. A broken heart is not just a metaphor but a real neurochemical state. The body literally suffers. Then there’s dopamine — the reward neurotransmitter. When we’re in a relationship, job, or situation that once brought satisfaction, the brain remembers the past dopamine rushes and keeps waiting for them to return. That’s why it’s so hard to give up something that used to bring pleasure, even if it no longer does. This mechanism works like an addiction — not to the person or situation itself, but to the emotional state we associate with them. The same goes for oxytocin, the bonding hormone. It’s released when we touch someone, talk to them, or simply stay close — even when that closeness no longer nurtures us. Oxytocin cements relationships; it’s the “social glue.” That’s why separation is, in a sense, a kind of chemical withdrawal. The body craves contact, even when that contact has become harmful. 

Cortisol, the stress hormone, also plays a major role. Its levels rise in moments of uncertainty. When we think about ending something important, the body reacts as if we were facing a real threat. The heart beats faster, the breath becomes shallower, and the mind searches for ways to return to “balance” — meaning, to the old familiar state. Interestingly, studies also show that people who have learned how to end things and process loss tend to have more developed neural plasticity — their brains adapt more quickly to new conditions. This means that the ability to end things is not merely a personality trait but a form of biological training. The more often we allow ourselves to change, the less paralyzing those changes become. From this perspective, ending, saying goodbye, or letting go becomes a kind of biological competence — as natural as wound healing. The body needs closure to avoid staying in a state of constant alert. Remaining in something long over is like keeping an open wound, hoping it will heal on its own. It won’t. Only the decision to end something triggers the process of regeneration and healing — both physical and psychological.

The End as an Act of Maturity

Since ending is so difficult — and biologically goes against our very wiring — the question arises: can we learn how to do it? Psychologist and therapist Henry Cloud believes we can, provided we stop treating endings as failures and start seeing them as a natural part of the growth cycle. In his book Necessary Endings, Cloud writes that in life, just like in nature, growth is impossible without pruning what no longer bears fruit. A tree that isn’t pruned eventually withers. A person who cannot end things stops halfway. Cloud points out that most people dislike farewells and goodbyes because they mistakenly equate them solely with harm. Yet not every ending is a tragedy — some are a necessity, even an act of self-care. Psychological growth requires discernment: recognizing which relationships, commitments, or projects still nurture us and which ones simply drain our energy. As Cloud puts it, “Just because something isn’t working doesn’t mean it can be fixed; sometimes it means it’s time to end it.” Just as a gardener prunes dead branches to let the tree grow, we too must cut away what takes up the space needed for new life. We’ve been taught to endure, repair, and give endless chances. Cloud says: that may be noble, but it’s not always healthy. Loyalty to others should never mean disloyalty to yourself. Staying in something that no longer works — out of obligation or nostalgia — leads to emotional burnout and a loss of purpose.

In his view, maturity isn’t about carrying everything but about knowing when to put certain burdens down. It’s one of the hardest decisions we face because it challenges a culture that glorifies perseverance. But Cloud emphasizes: perseverance without purpose becomes avoidance of truth. When we end something that once mattered to us, we enter what he calls the “zone of emotional discomfort.” The brain interprets this as danger, though in reality it’s a signal of growth. Cloud compares this to muscle soreness after a workout — it’s not a sign of dying, but of developing. In the same way, our psyche grows through discomfort and loss. Cloud also highlights something rarely discussed: ending requires grief. We can’t move on without acknowledging that something has truly ended. Most people try to skip this stage, pretending that loss doesn’t hurt. But without grief, there’s no cleansing — only stagnation that blocks renewal. That’s why Cloud encourages us to allow ourselves to experience endings fully: with sadness, doubt, and emptiness. Because only when we accept the end can we open ourselves to something new without feeling like we’re betraying the past.

Cloud divides people into three types: wise, naïve, and toxic — and stresses that only the wise can end things consciously. A wise person sees reality and draws conclusions. A naïve person hopes that “things will work out somehow.” A toxic person denies there’s a problem at all. This distinction applies not only to relationships, but also to work, projects, and habits. When we try to revive something that has long stopped living, we behave naively. When we deny our own burnout, we remain trapped in a toxic loop. Wisdom lies in saying to yourself: “It’s over — and that’s okay.” In Cloud’s philosophy, there’s no room for dramatizing. There is, however, space for maturity and acceptance of life’s cycles. In nature, everything has its time: blooming, bearing fruit, dying. Yet humans resist this as if endings were design flaws. In truth, they are part of the natural order that allows growth. Cloud urges us to treat endings as a hygienic process — cleansing the system of what has stopped being alive. When we can’t end things, we accumulate expired emotions, roles, and relationships that eventually rot, poisoning everything else. In Cloud’s view, an ending is not a failure but an act of inner order. It’s the point at which we reclaim agency over our lives. When we have the courage to admit that something no longer works, we recover not only time and energy but also clarity — the space in which something new can emerge. Because, as Cloud writes, “Sometimes what holds us back is not the lack of possibilities, but the excess of things we don’t know how to finish”.

Loss as a Part of Every Life

If Henry Cloud teaches us how to prune dead branches so that the tree can keep growing, Judith Viorst reminds us that sometimes growth isn’t about cutting but about allowing certain branches to wither on their own. Not everything needs to be removed with determination — some things simply must fall away so that something new can emerge. Viorst, an American psychologist and author of Necessary Losses, writes that all of life is a series of inevitable losses — and that it is precisely these losses that make us human. For her, ending is not a single act of will but a process of maturing, in which we learn to accept that something stops working, changes, or disappears. A child loses the belief that the world revolves around them. A teenager — the conviction that everything is possible. An adult — the illusion that one can have everything at once. Each of these stages is a small lesson in loss that builds our emotional maturity. Viorst believes that the ability to lose is one of the most important factors supporting mental health.

Unlike Cloud, who treats endings as a conscious act of will, Viorst sees them as an attitude — a calm acceptance of the fact that nothing lasts forever. Not every separation or loss requires a decision; some simply happen. A relationship loosens, a friendship fades, a dream loses meaning. Our task is not to cling to these things, but to learn how to live on without resentment. Viorst writes that true strength lies not in controlling reality but in accepting its transience. Instead of fighting impermanence, we should learn to cooperate with it. Loss — even painful loss — is a part of life, not its opposite. Those who try to hold on to everything lose their peace of mind. Those who can let go regain balance. In a world that rewards achievers and perfectionists, Viorst reminds us that sometimes the greatest act of courage is to accept failure, departure, or impermanence without dramatizing it. Not every ending requires action — sometimes it’s enough to simply let something end. It is in this acceptance of life’s natural rhythm of losses that maturity resides. Because, as Viorst wrote, “Life is not the art of avoiding losses, but the art of losing with grace”.

Conscious Parting or a Panic Escape?

The difference between acceptance and resignation can be almost imperceptible. Sometimes we think we’re ending something, when in fact we’re just running away — from pain, from change, from ourselves. In a culture that glorifies quick decisions and flashy “new beginnings,” it’s hard to tell one from the other. Yet they’re completely different stories. Ending is a conscious act — a decision made after confronting reality. Escape is a defense mechanism that helps us avoid pain but doesn’t solve the problem. In the first case, a person sees that something has run its course and has the courage to acknowledge it. In the second, they look away before they can even name what’s happening. Psychologists explain that escape is an avoidant mechanism designed to protect us from emotional overload. In studies by Harvard psychologist Susan David, author of the concept of emotional agility, she argues that people who avoid difficult emotions are more likely to make impulsive decisions — and to regret them in the long run. They don’t flee because they lack courage, but because they can’t bear the tension between what they feel and what they know.

Ending requires slowing down and facing the truth. Escape, on the other hand, is about quickly covering emotions with action: changing jobs, partners, cities. It may seem that something has closed, but the person has only changed the setting — the same story continues, just in a different place and with different characters. This is why, over time, the same patterns reappear. Therapists often speak of the repetition compulsion — until we consciously process an ending, we are bound to recreate its pattern in new situations. That’s why someone who hasn’t healed from a breakup later enters a nearly identical relationship, or a person who keeps quitting jobs ends up in workplaces that drain them in the same way. Escape brings instant relief but robs us of learning. Brené Brown wrote that the avoidance of pain is a form of spiritual numbing — when we shut ourselves off from painful emotions, we also block joy and meaning. In practice, this means that if we “end” something just to avoid feeling, we haven’t truly ended it — we’ve only suspended our emotions in limbo. Psychologists call this emotional avoidance — a mechanism that protects us in the short term but reinforces suffering in the long run.

A good example is someone who quits their job every year, calling it “career growth,” when they can’t handle frustration or conflict. Or someone who ends every relationship the moment intimacy appears, saying “it’s not right,” though the real issue lies in their fear of being hurt. In both cases, the decision to end is not developmental but defensive. True ending, on the other hand, is a process that combines reflection, grief, and decision. It requires looking back without blame and asking, “What has this taught me?” It’s the difference between closing a door and slamming it shut in anger. Existential psychologists such as Irvin D. Yalom emphasize that mature letting go contains both acceptance of loss and hope — unlike escape, which is fueled by fear. Escape begins with an impulse; ending begins with awareness. Escape is movement away from something; ending is movement toward something. Ending is a meeting with truth. Escape is an attempt to drown it out. Only in the first case can we truly understand — and grow.

How to Learn to End

Ending can be practiced — like a muscle that grows stronger with every effort. Psychology calls this emotional agility — the ability to experience loss and adapt to new circumstances without losing a sense of self-worth. Susan David, the Harvard psychologist mentioned earlier, writes that it isn’t resilience that helps people cope with endings, but flexibility. Resilience assumes that nothing can break us; flexibility accepts that we might break, but that we can grow back together in a new form. The first step in learning to end is acknowledging that something is over. It sounds simple, but it’s crucial. Many people remain in denial — they keep in touch, revisit old places, reread old messages. It’s like picking at a wound that never gets a chance to heal. Acceptance of the end is the moment when reality catches up with emotion. The second step is allowing yourself to grieve. In a culture obsessed with success, few people give themselves permission to mourn something that’s ended — unless it’s death. Yet every ending — leaving a job, ending a relationship — triggers the same stages of grief: denial, anger, sadness, and finally, acceptance. Psychologists warn that skipping this process leads to emotional backlash — unresolved feelings that resurface later, in a new relationship, a new job, or the everyday moments of life.

The third step is gratitude — not for the ending itself, but for what was. Research by Martin Seligman, the founder of positive psychology, shows that practicing gratitude helps the brain shift from a loss mindset to a growth mindset. Instead of asking “Why did this end?”, we begin to ask, “What can I do with it now?” Finally, the fourth step is symbolic closure — a ritual that restores a sense of order. For some, it’s writing a letter that will never be sent; for others, one last walk through a place they need to say goodbye to. Studies show that such gestures lower cortisol levels and help regain a sense of agency. That’s why rituals of closure are so important: they give form to emotions and meaning to chaos. Learning to end also means learning not to confuse an ending with failure. It’s about developing acceptance of life’s cycles — that something can be good and still come to an end. The simplest way to practice this is to start small: allow yourself not to finish a book that bores you; throw away clothes that no longer mean anything; decline a meeting that feels empty. Over time, this ability extends to the bigger choices in life.

Learning to end, to say goodbye, to part ways — is like learning to pause. Just like in a movie theater, when the final scene fades and the end credits roll, but the lights haven’t come on yet. We have that moment to sort out our emotions, to process what we’ve just seen, to piece the story together. It’s the moment when we gain perspective, before returning to reality. That’s when we realize that every ending — like every film — leaves a trace within us. And what we do with that trace determines how we begin the next chapter of our lives. Because end credits — in cinema and in life — aren’t there just to close the story. They exist so we can see who we’ve become by watching it through to the end. Soon another film awaits us — a new story to watch, and another one we’ll direct ourselves. That’s why we need end credits in our lives. Without them, there would be no next scenes, no new characters, no fresh emotions. It’s thanks to them that we can rise calmly from our seat, take a breath, and make space for something new. So, let’s not be afraid when they appear — because they’re what allow us to write the next script and make room for a new story.