Tossing my purse into the passenger seat, I slid into the car for some morning errands when I heard a neighbor across the street saying a casual goodbye to a friend. “Alright, see ya later!” they called out. Nothing out of the ordinary, but it stopped me in my tracks. I felt a twinge of jealousy at the ease of their farewell. “When was the last time I said goodbye to my dad with such effortless efficiency?” I wondered. Ever since my father’s unexpected diagnosis two summers ago, every little goodbye has stung with the reminder that The Big Goodbye is looming. 

“Ever since my father’s unexpected diagnosis two summers ago, every little goodbye has stung with the reminder that The Big Goodbye is looming.”

My dad is still with us, and I’m thankful for every minute, but due to the nature and progression of his disease, countless lasts slipped by without us knowing. I was unaware that the family vacation we took three years ago would be the last time I traveled with him. I didn’t realize we’d never again have the chance to return together to the country I call home again. I didn’t mark the last meal we all shared in which his menu didn’t have to be carefully considered in conjunction with treatments. There was no grand bucket list of experiences to treat him to — something I had subconsciously begun to believe people were owed when a loved one contracts a terminal illness. 

As deeply as it hurts to know my dad is approaching the end of his life, and as much as I wish we had the capability to go and see and do more things “one last time” together, I know that it’s a gift to have this season where we get to appreciate one another’s presence before he’s gone. There’s time to say what we want to say, and then to reflect and say even more. This is a gift that not everyone gets. 

“There’s time to say what we want to say, and then to reflect and say even more. This is a gift that not everyone gets.”

One of my closest friends lost her dad abruptly in the spring of her junior year in college. There were no warning signs, no opportunities for intentional last questions. Without the closure of those experiences, she tells me how challenging it has been — and continues to be over a decade later — to not live in the past. Even when it comes to decisions around which physical items to keep, there’s an extra thick layer of emotional allegiance on top of the usual sentimentality. This week she unearthed a lighthearted birthday gift that he gave her. Though she knows it’s something she’d normally have given away by now, it carries the weight of being connected to the last family dinner they shared. It honors a last that she didn’t know was a last, which feels sacred in the absence of a final conversation with him. 

Though our circumstances differ, my friend and I have both observed that the seminal experience of losing a loved one has altered our relationship to endings of all kinds. Perhaps it’s the pain of slowly saying goodbye to a parent or perhaps it’s the sentimentality of becoming a parent myself, but the past few years have made me hyper-aware of our continual proximity to an avalanche of lasts we won’t know about until they’ve already passed. 

“The past few years have made me hyper-aware of our continual proximity to an avalanche of lasts we won’t know about until they’ve already passed.”

Even the lasts that aren’t categorically mournful can pull at our heartstrings when we pause to take them in. I teared up sitting in the pickup line on my daughter’s last day of nursery school. Trying to memorize the height of her silhouette as she ran to greet me at the door, it hit me that this last wasn’t really true to the experience of the dozens of pickups I wanted to remember. The energy in the room was heavy with awareness as we all said goodbye. I couldn’t help but think that the last truly normal school pickup must have slipped by earlier in the week before the finality flavored the experience so differently. 

Often, formal lasts feel a bit detached from the experience they represent. Subtle lasts regularly pass without pomp, and perhaps that gives them a unique value of their own. When we’re submerged in the everyday moment instead of watching it as a future memory, we give ourselves the gift of unadulterated presence. To sit in acute awareness of current endings, we sacrifice non-performative normality. This is a balance I am trying to find these days. 

Still, the ceremonial lasts matter to us. We can even feel haunted by them if they’re missed. Why is this? Why do lasts feel much more important to us than the entirety of the experience that they’re ending?

“Why do lasts feel much more important to us than the entirety of the experience that they’re ending?”

Wanting to broaden my perspective, I took my questions to clinical psychologist Dr. Diane Sanford. She put it this way when I spoke with her, “We go through life and experience peaks and valleys through moments of significance (like a last). Something notable — either positive or negative — happens, and inside our body’s sympathetic nervous system, we are literally stirred up chemically. As human beings, we have this intensity of thought and feeling that causes us to bring more awareness to the final experience than we would have day to day.” 

Dr. Sanford went on to explain that the “recency effect” is a cognitive effect that allows us to recall lasts more than we do in-between moments — or even firsts. Since the last experience with something or someone will by default forever be the most recent interaction we have, it has the power to color how our brain categorizes the entire experience.

“The ‘recency effect’ is a cognitive effect that allows us to recall lasts more than we do in-between moments — or even firsts.”

At some point in life, most of us will go through an experience that hinders our ability to architect a farewell with closure in the moment — the unexpected loss of a loved one, a natural disaster, a breakup without explanation, an unforeseen diagnosis, a company collapse — there are endless scenarios that can ambush us with unwelcome endings. 

Regardless of the situation, closure is critical for our human desire to complete narratives in a way that makes sense. We need to close the metaphorical circle before we can move on physiologically.

Dr. Sanford defines closure as internal acceptance. “You reach a point in experience and awareness, reflection, digestion, and integration where you can genuinely recognize the nuances of the circumstance with all its positive and negative elements together.” As I ask more questions about reaching this peaceful state, she reminds me of the core (rather inconvenient) truth: Acceptance is an ongoing journey and not a destination. 

“Acceptance is an ongoing journey and not a destination.”

For some, a sense of acceptance can be found quite quickly, only to have waves of confusing feelings and grief resurface months or years later. In the case of losing a loved one without the closure of a final conversation, Dr. Sanford finds the “empty chair technique” helpful for some clients. In this practice, you put an empty chair in front of you and literally imagine the conversation you would have had with the deceased person if you’d had the chance. What would you have wanted to say to them? What would they have said to you that would have brought you peace?

Another tool that we discussed is honoring the firsts and mindfully embodying them so they are fully recalled with as much awareness and energy as we spend vividly imagining the lasts we didn’t get to experience. I’d subconsciously started doing this as a parent, observing the futility of trying to predict the last time one of my children would do something in the midst of their rapid development. I’ve shifted the majority of my focus to celebrating firsts. Thanks to the nature of life itself, there are just as many beginnings as there are lasts. The two are inextricably linked, and we can choose to honor the endings while prioritizing the energy in embracing a new season, even if it’s bittersweet. This practice keeps us aware and grounded in our current realities.

“I’ve shifted the majority of my focus to celebrating firsts. Thanks to the nature of life itself, there are just as many beginnings as there are lasts.”

My friend who suddenly lost her dad has never sugarcoated the experience, but she does reflect on the way it’s taught her to genuinely appreciate the sacredness of ordinary moments. That phrase feels like a cliche until we experience a loss that changes the entire lens through which we see life. As we talk about this topic, she mentions Mary Oliver’s words, “Attention is the beginning of devotion… to pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.”

We need both acceptance and attention to take us by hand as we bravely step forward after missing an important last. Looking back, we can practice acceptance of what happened and take time to direct our attention towards what it meant to us. In doing so, we give space to honor all that we need to feel. 

Looking forward, we can choose to accept our new reality and devote our attention to the details of this present season. In doing so, we might just realize we’re living out our endless and vital work of being fully aware amidst the churning waves of firsts and lasts that carry us through all of life.


Ellie Hughes is a Contributing Editor at The Good Trade. She spent several years as a sustainable fashion blogger and leading the marketing for brands aiming to operate with ethics and the environment as their priority. She is now a freelance writer and marketing consultant living in Portland with her husband, two young daughters, and corgi.