We're always at the beginning of our end.

It’s a phrase that sounds bleak at first, but sit with it for a while and it begins to feel oddly comforting. Like a paradox with teeth, it reminds us that every moment we live carries within it the seed of a conclusion. And yet, life isn’t simply a slow march toward death — it’s a constant unfolding. Endings give shape to beginnings, just as shadows define the light.

From the moment we’re born, we begin a journey of departure. Each breath we take is both a continuation and a countdown. But it’s not just biological. Relationships begin, not in a vacuum of hope, but on the cusp of their eventual transformation. Careers, ideas, seasons, identities — all start in the knowledge that they will end, shift, or be left behind.

Still, we keep going. We plan, love, create, rebuild.

We look at babies and say, "She has her whole life ahead of her," while never acknowledging that the same life will one day run out. And that’s not morbid — it’s beautiful. It’s a reminder that our time, attention, and energy are precious, not permanent.

There’s a strange grace in acknowledging impermanence. It sharpens the moment. It asks: If you knew this chapter would end tomorrow, would you write it differently today?

For me, this isn’t a call to fear endings. It’s a quiet invitation to embrace the cycles. To stop pretending we’re living in the middle of something fixed — and instead accept that we’re constantly arriving and departing. Always becoming, always unravelling.

And in that truth, there’s room to breathe.