Learning to Love Endings
“A man is like a novel: until the very last page you don't know how it will end. Otherwise it wouldn't even be worth reading.”
– Yevgeny Zamyatin
What does it feel like to stand at the end of a life chapter?
Like a hug from someone who sees the best in you—always.
A hollow ache that curls your body inward, folding your shoulders over your heart.
Sore legs, burning lungs, and trembling arms as you reach the mountain’s peak.
Morning light spilling over the horizon; a fawn nestled beside her mother, laughter so deep it leaves your stomach aching.
As my daughter crosses the stage with the class of 2024 college graduates, I find myself reflecting on 18 years of parenting.
There was the time I tried to make homemade barley formula from a recipe passed down by my landlord’s ancestors, which drummed up images of a midwife giving birth in a dew-spotted Swedish meadow, but turned out to be clumpy barley in water. Then there were enforced nightly reading sessions—only to discover she had memorized the books.
When her inattentive teenage swimming teacher failed her, I requested a retest. She jumped back in the water and passed.
After being diagnosed with dyslexia and dyscalculia, I searched for the best schooling and tutoring I could afford—going against the public school system’s advice and going into debt, trusting that God would provide. And He did.
Math tutoring wasn’t productive; she had the tutors in stitches, barely getting any work done. Then there was the battle of before-dinner flash cards – my husband quit after the second night.
Awards, baking hazards, bad teachers, court proceedings, angel teachers who retired too soon, weekday camping trips, deep friendships, disappointments, managing screen time before YouTube took over kids’ lives—she’s had them all.
I’ve been there for every moment, cheering her on, probably shedding 5% of my body weight in tears. I wish that were fat.
Now she’s graduated from her pastry arts program and works in a bakery. I’m encouraging her to make me a gluten-free, sugar-free croissant, but she hasn't yet. She loves reading and spends chunks of her paycheques on books, uses complex math successfully every day, and has grown into a compassionate, caring, exceptionally witty young woman.
As I turn the tables, I ask myself, who have I become? And what does this ending mean for me?
One tough lady—but like a Danish, soft on the inside where it counts.
Now, I see I’m capable of greatness—
The kind born of fierce love and quiet resistance when I know what needs to be done.
I’ll carry this acquired wisdom into my art and see what it leads to.
The next page is blank. Still, I’m celebrating a graduation of my own.
A younger version of myself has been shed. Before she left, I thanked her—
for facing so many problems with such great faith and optimism.
“There is no real ending. It’s just the place where you stop the story.”
― Frank Herbert
In appreciation for your being here,
Shana Lee
