Jonathan Harley

Not all beginnings come to endings, but all endings come to beginnings. 

Jonathan J. Harley

The title for this blog post occurred to me while driving home from a yoga class. When I land on a small pearl of wisdom, I start to wonder where I might have stolen it from. A quick search led me to this line written by Mitch Albom in the opening of The Five People You Meet in Heaven: 

“All endings are also beginnings. We just don’t know it at the time.”

It’s a more succinct way of saying what I’m about to try unpacking here.

When I was asked to write the inaugural blog post on behalf of the psychotherapy team here at OM, I’ll admit, I wasn’t entirely sure where to begin. In the spirit of wisdom shared by my yoga teacher Steve Ferrell – that the practice of mindfulness is to notice things that are happening as they are happening – it felt important to start with writing about what feels present in my own life right now.

This moment happens to coincide with five years of working at OM—a milestone that’s led me to reflect on how I can step back from other responsibilities (ones I also care deeply about) to be more present here. Some of you may know that I have worked as a frontline worker in child welfare services for nearly a decade. That role has shaped me in profound ways. It’s work I’ve felt deeply committed to, work that has asked a lot of me, and that I’ve given a lot of myself to in return. At the same time, stepping back from it has not been a simple or straightforward decision. 

There’s been a tension in holding both the meaning that work carries for me and the recognition that I can’t sustain everything at once. Working with children and their families in child welfare services is the kind of role that stays with you. It’s not something you easily leave at the door at the end of the day. And so, this transition has come with its own mix of reflection, uncertainty, and, at times, grief. Letting go, even partially, of something that has been such a central part of my professional identity hasn’t been easy. And yet, there’s also been a growing sense within me for years that creating more space for myself here at OM is the right next step. That being more present, more focused, and more grounded in this work is something worth moving toward—even if it means stepping back from something else I value. 

I’m proud to share that the outcome of this deliberation has been a change to my scheduling, and I am now adding availability for sessions on Mondays and Fridays during the day at our Dundas clinic.

Because of my own experiences in navigating this recent adjustment, I feel pretty closely connected to how worrisome and unsettling change can be—even when we know, on some level, that it’s for the better.

Endings tend to be scary.

We recognize this in the ways we support one another through loss. When something we value comes to an end, we name it as grief. We expect sadness. We check in on each other. We understand that something meaningful has been lost.

But what’s sometimes less talked about is how grief can also show up alongside the very things we’ve hoped for.

We see this in moments like stepping into a long-awaited relationship, starting a new career, or welcoming a child into the world. These are beginnings we often move toward with intention and hope—and yet, they can still carry unexpected weight. There can be hesitation, disorientation, even forms of depression that accompany these transitions. Because even in gaining something new, something else is being left behind.

This is part of how we move forward.

Endings, then, begin to ask something of us: what are the essential movements within our lives?

When a chapter closes—a relationship, a role, a version of identity—it can feel like the ground beneath us has shifted. And in many ways, it has. There may be grief for what was, fear of what’s next, and a lingering question of what now? It’s here that a different kind of beginning starts to take shape. Not the kind that comes with a clear plan or immediate clarity, but a quieter beginning. One that begins with noticing. With allowing. With making space for reality as it is, right now.

As Carl Rogers wrote, “The curious paradox is that when I accept myself just as I am, then I can change.” Acceptance, in this sense, is not a passive endorsement of things as they are. It is an active, courageous turning toward our experience. It’s what allows movement to happen—not forced or rushed, but emerging in its own time. When we begin to let go of the illusion that we can control or undo an ending, we reconnect with what is still possible. We may notice small shifts: a new thought, a different feeling, a sense of curiosity where there was once only fear. These are often the first signs of a beginning.

Beginnings, then, are not always bold or obvious. More often, they are quiet. They unfold beneath the surface of acceptance. They grow in the space created when we stop fighting reality and start listening to it.

If you find yourself in an ending right now, you’re not alone. And you’re not behind.

There is no right timeline for moving forward, and no requirement to have everything figured out. What matters most is your willingness to be with what is here. It requires immense self-awareness and self-discipline to create space for responses rather than reactions. When you begin to stay attuned to your own choices, you may notice that meaningful change is rarely “too late” or “too soon”; “too little” or “too much” – it simply arrives when it does.

Because while not all beginnings come to ends, all endings, in their own time, open the door to something new.