We’re taught to celebrate beginnings—first days, fresh starts, new chapters. There are rituals for openings, for arrivals, for the “hello.” But when it comes to endings, the room gets quiet. The mood shifts. The discomfort creeps in.

And yet, endings are everywhere.

The end of a school year. The moment a friendship fades. The day a dream is no longer pursued. The final episode of a favourite show. Even small things—leaving a group chat, deleting a playlist, saying goodbye at a train station—carry emotional weight.

But we rarely stop to think about what endings mean. We rush past them, avoid them, or pretend they don’t matter. In a culture obsessed with growth and continuity, stopping feels like failure. Letting go feels like weakness.

It’s not.

In reality, endings are some of the most human moments we experience. They demand courage, reflection, and presence. They challenge us to process change, to mourn, to adapt, and—if we allow it—to grow.

In the One Life Many Endings project, we invite young people to look again at the concept of endings—not as something to fear, but as something to understand. Because when we unpack the idea of “the end,” we uncover stories, memories, emotions, and truths that are often left unspoken.

One participant shared how they felt when their long-time hobby—competitive dance—came to a natural end. “I kept trying to keep it alive, even though my body and mind were elsewhere. I felt guilty. Like I was betraying something I loved. But when I finally let it go, I found space for something new.”

That’s what reflection does. It turns the end into a transition, not a void.

Another participant spoke about the end of a close friendship that had been drifting for years. “We didn’t fight. We just changed. For a while I held on because I thought that’s what loyalty meant. But it hurt both of us. When we finally had an honest conversation and said, ‘this is over,’ it was sad—but also freeing.”

These stories are common. And they matter.

Because when we treat endings as taboo or failure, we lose the chance to learn from them. We miss the opportunity to ask: What did I gain? What did I lose? What can I carry forward?

Reframing endings also helps us deal with regret and “what ifs.” The dream that didn’t work out. The path not taken. The version of ourselves that existed before a breakup, a decision, a pandemic. When we name these endings, we can grieve them—and then release them. Not with bitterness, but with compassion.

And endings aren’t always personal. They can be collective. The end of a youth project. The final session of a group. The closure of a space that once felt like home. These too leave traces. They deserve attention, rituals, and space to process.

What’s striking is how little space young people are usually given to talk about endings. Schools prepare students for exams, but not for the emotional end of being part of a class. Youth programs are full of celebration at the start, but often silent when they finish. Relationships are encouraged to begin—but who teaches us how to end them well?

This silence creates confusion, guilt, and emotional residue.

That’s why in this project, we emphasize emotional literacy—the ability to name, feel, and share the emotions that come with closure. We explore rituals, conversations, and creative tools that help participants understand what endings mean for them, and how to carry that understanding forward.

Because here’s the truth: most endings aren’t clean. They’re messy, complex, unresolved. They don’t always come with a goodbye speech or a tidy conclusion. And that’s okay.

What matters is not that every ending is perfect—but that it’s acknowledged.

When we begin to see endings as normal, even necessary, something shifts. We stop clinging. We start listening. We let go without losing meaning. We learn to stay soft when things fall apart. And we trust that every ending contains a seed—not always of a new beginning, but of a deeper self.

So no, the end is not the enemy.

It is part of the story. Sometimes the most honest, most tender, most revealing part.

And when we meet it with presence, we find that endings don’t close us—they open us.