We love to romanticise transitions.
New job? Fresh start.
Breakup? New chapter.
Grief? A gateway to healing.
That kind of narrative has comforted me for years — like wrapping a bruise in glitter and calling it art.
I’ve said goodbye to people, places, habits, homes, and versions of myself I barely recognised. And each time, I clung to this soft myth: this ending must mean a new beginning is on its way. It made the jump feel exciting. It was a dopamine hit wrapped in self-delusion — a sugar rush before the crash.
But here’s the truth: an end is not an end, and it sure as hell isn’t a beginning.
It’s just… part of the same messy, evolving, non-linear story.
It took me years (and more than one “goodbye forever” text) to understand this.
Just because the chapter’s over doesn’t mean the next one is a clean slate. Even if we call it a “new book,” we’re not starting from scratch.
This isn’t a reboot — it’s a continuation.
The sequel wouldn’t exist without the original plotline.
So no, quitting a job, ending a relationship, losing someone — none of these moments erase what came before. They’re just sharp turns in the same journey. Not dead ends. Not fresh starts. Just change. And change is not the same as beginning again.
When I stopped framing every life pivot as an end or a beginning, I felt lighter.
I no longer had to grieve so deeply, or force joy prematurely.
Because nothing truly leaves us — not the people, not the lessons, not even the pain.
They morph. They echo. They shape who we are as we stumble into whatever comes next.
When I left that job, I didn’t leave empty-handed. I took the money, the experience, the lessons (and a few petty grudges, if we’re being honest). That chapter is still with me.
It enabled the next one. It is the next one.
The same logic applies to love.
Ending one relationship doesn’t reset the clock to zero.
We don’t become blank slates for new lovers to project their fantasies on.
We carry forward the bruises, the wisdom, the longing. And maybe — if we’re lucky — a better sense of what we won’t tolerate next time.
So no. This post isn’t a beginning.
It’s a continuation. A weaving together of all the stuff I’ve carried, shed, lost, found, and misfiled in the wrong emotional folders.
And maybe, if we stop treating life like a collection of clean breaks and glorious restarts, we can finally make peace with the in-betweens.
Because it’s not about closure.
It’s about continuity.
So, no — this isn’t a beginning either.
God knows how many times I’ve tried to start this blog. Debated which piece should come first. Obsessed over the “perfect” entry point, as if stories need grand openings.
The truth? This could’ve started anywhere. On any day. With any line.
But it started today. And today, with all its unresolved thoughts, recycled doubts, half-sipped coffees, and little courage, is the best day I have.
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