By Mark Linden O’Meara
We human beings have an extraordinary need to make sense of things. When something happens that we don’t understand, our minds immediately begin searching for an explanation. Why did this happen? What went wrong? What could I have done differently? Was there something I missed? Sometimes we find the answers, and sometimes we don’t. And sometimes the search for an answer causes us more suffering than the original experience.
I’ve been thinking about this recently, particularly in relation to the Western idea of closure and the Eastern spiritual practice of letting go. In Western culture, we’re often encouraged to find closure after a painful experience. We want to understand what happened, put the pieces together, close the chapter, and move forward. But what happens when there is no explanation? What happens when the other person disappears from our lives, leaving questions that may never be answered? Perhaps healing doesn’t always require closure. Perhaps it requires something entirely different.
When the Story Has No Ending
I recently dated someone I cared about deeply. We shared experiences, affection, laughter, and the ordinary little moments that make a relationship meaningful. Then, without warning, it ended abruptly. On Tuesday we were laughing, cuddling, and making plans for the weekend. On Thursday she confirmed we would get together on Saturday. On Friday she changed the plans to a brief walk and dinner. On Saturday she cancelled. On Monday she ended the relationship by text message. There was no conversation between Tuesday and the following Monday. Just a perceived shift. There was no gradual transition, no meaningful final conversation, and no opportunity to understand what had changed. One moment, this person was part of my life; then suddenly, the connection was gone.
The abruptness made the loss especially difficult. It felt as though a door had been closed before I had even realized the conversation was over. What made the experience particularly painful wasn’t simply losing the relationship. It was the unanswered questions and the sudden silence that followed. There were circumstances in this person’s life that I knew about but couldn’t fully understand, and uncertainties about the future that remained unresolved. Eventually, there was no longer any communication.
I found myself wondering what had happened, whether this person was doing well, and what circumstances might have contributed to the relationship ending so suddenly. My mind kept searching for explanations. At first, those unanswered questions were emotionally painful. I wanted to understand. I wanted the story to make sense. I wanted some kind of final exchange that could explain how something meaningful had ended so abruptly.
Eventually, however, I began to recognize something important. I wasn’t just struggling with the loss. I was struggling with not knowing—and with the suddenness of the ending. The relationship had ended, but my caring hadn’t. There had been no proper goodbye, no clear conclusion, and no way to complete the story. It was like reading a book that suddenly stops in the middle of a sentence.
The Western Search for Closure
In much of Western popular psychology, closure is presented as an important part of emotional healing. We want the final conversation, the explanation, the apology, or the acknowledgment that helps us understand what happened. When a relationship ends abruptly, that desire can become even stronger. We want to know why the person pulled away, what changed, and whether the ending could have been prevented.
There’s nothing inherently wrong with wanting these things. Understanding can be enormously helpful. But there’s a hidden assumption in our search for closure: that we need an answer before we can find peace. And that assumption can become a trap.
What if the person who hurt us doesn’t understand their own behaviour? What if circumstances changed in ways we’ll never discover? What if the explanation we receive isn’t truthful, complete, or satisfying? What if the ending was so sudden that there was never going to be a final conversation? We may spend months or even years waiting for something that will never arrive. Worse, we may unconsciously give another person control over our emotional recovery.
We tell ourselves, “I can finally move forward when I understand why.” But why should our peace depend on receiving information that someone else may never provide?
The Eastern Perspective: Opening the Heart
I recently watched a Chinese video that offered an interesting contrast. The speaker suggested that while Westerners often search for closure, Eastern approaches to healing may place greater emphasis on opening the heart. Of course, this isn’t a universal cultural distinction. Western and Eastern traditions are diverse, and people everywhere seek both understanding and acceptance. Nevertheless, the contrast offers a valuable way of thinking about emotional healing.
Instead of asking, “How do I close this chapter?” we might ask, “How can I open my heart to life as it is?” That is a profoundly different question. Closure suggests that something must be finished, while opening the heart suggests that we can continue living, loving, and growing even when something remains unfinished.
We don’t have to erase the experience, deny our feelings, or pretend the person never mattered. We simply stop insisting that life provide an explanation before we allow ourselves to experience peace. Even when something ends suddenly, we can gradually learn to accept that the ending happened before we were ready for it.
What Buddhism Teaches About Attachment
One of the central teachings of Buddhism concerns attachment and the suffering that arises when we cling to things that are constantly changing. Everything in life is impermanent. Relationships change, circumstances change, and people enter our lives and leave them. Sometimes we understand why, and sometimes we don’t. Sometimes they leave gradually, while at other times they disappear from our lives with startling speed.
Much of our suffering comes not from change itself, but from our resistance to it. We want things to remain as they were. We want certainty where none exists, and we want people to behave according to our expectations. When reality refuses to cooperate, we suffer.
Buddhism doesn’t teach us to stop caring about people. Compassion and loving-kindness are central to Buddhist practice. Rather, it encourages us to recognize the difference between love and attachment. Love says, “I care about your well-being.” Attachment says, “I need you to remain in my life, behave in a particular way, or give me something before I can be happy.”
These two experiences can become so intertwined that we have difficulty distinguishing them, but they are not the same. We can love someone without possessing them. We can care about someone without knowing what happens next in their life. And perhaps most importantly, we can wish someone well without requiring anything in return.
Loving Without Knowing
This realization has been particularly meaningful for me. I can continue caring about someone who is no longer part of my life. I can hope they’re healthy, safe, and happy. I can appreciate what we shared, even though it ended abruptly and without the goodbye I wanted. And I can accept that I may never know what happened afterward.
That doesn’t mean I’ve stopped caring. It means I’m learning to separate caring from the need for information. There’s something remarkably freeing about that distinction.
We often assume that letting go means no longer feeling anything. We imagine that healing requires indifference. But indifference isn’t necessarily healing. Sometimes it’s simply another way of protecting ourselves from pain. Real letting go may be much more compassionate. It allows us to acknowledge that someone mattered without insisting that they continue to play a role in our lives. It allows gratitude to coexist with uncertainty, and love to exist without expectation. It also allows us to accept that a sudden ending does not erase the meaning of what came before it.
The Mind Wants Answers. The Heart Wants Peace.
Our minds are extraordinary problem-solving machines. Give the mind a question, and it immediately begins searching for an answer. That’s wonderful when we’re solving a technical problem, planning a trip, or figuring out how to repair something. But emotional experiences aren’t always problems that can be solved through analysis.
Sometimes the mind keeps searching long after there is nothing more to discover. We replay conversations, examine memories, and imagine possible explanations. We return to the final moments and wonder whether we missed a warning sign. We ask whether a different message, a different response, or a different choice might have changed the outcome. Each new explanation generates another question. What if this happened? What if that was the reason? What if I had done something differently?
Eventually, we have to recognize that thinking more isn’t necessarily helping us heal. The mind wants certainty, but the heart can learn to live with uncertainty.
This doesn’t mean abandoning reason or refusing to learn from our experiences. Reflection is valuable. We should examine our behaviour, recognize patterns, and take responsibility where appropriate. But there comes a point when reflection becomes rumination. We are no longer learning anything new. We are simply walking around the same unanswered question, trying to create a conclusion that the abrupt ending never gave us. That’s when letting go becomes an act of wisdom.
Learning to Live With the Unfinished
Life is filled with unfinished stories. A friendship fades without explanation. A family member becomes estranged. Someone dies before we can say what we wanted to say. A relationship ends without the conversation we hoped to have. Sometimes a relationship ends so abruptly that we are left emotionally standing in the place where the other person disappeared.
We may never know why certain things happened, but perhaps we don’t need to know. I’ve begun to realize that the unanswered questions themselves don’t have to disappear. What can disappear is the emotional urgency surrounding them.
I can wake up in the morning, remember someone I cared about, and simply acknowledge the memory. There doesn’t have to be a desperate search for an explanation or another imaginary conversation. There can simply be a quiet recognition: “That person was important to me. I hope they’re doing well.”
And then I can return to living my life. Writing, creating music, enjoying nature, meeting new people, and finding joy in the experiences available to me today. The unfinished story remains part of my life, but it no longer has to control the next chapter. The fact that it ended suddenly doesn’t mean I have to remain frozen at the moment it ended.
Letting Go Is Not Closing the Heart
In Let Go and Heal, I explore the importance of releasing the thoughts, emotions, and attachments that keep us trapped in suffering. But I’m increasingly recognizing another dimension of letting go. Sometimes we don’t need to release the love. We need to release the demand for an answer.
We don’t have to close our hearts to people who are no longer present. We can remain open, compassionate, and grateful. We can accept that some people will always occupy a small place in our hearts, even when their lives have moved beyond our reach. And we can recognize that not every meaningful experience comes with a satisfying conclusion. Some endings are slow and understandable. Others are abrupt, confusing, and incomplete.
Perhaps that’s one of life’s deeper lessons. Peace doesn’t always come from knowing what happened. Sometimes it comes from accepting that we may never know why something ended so suddenly. We can stop searching for the missing final page. We can put the unfinished book on the shelf, appreciate what we read, and begin another. Not because the story didn’t matter, but because our own story is still being written.