When does something actually end? Is it when we stop showing up? When we stop talking? Or only when we realise—deep down—that it won’t begin again?
These are questions I’ve sat with often, especially in therapy spaces. But lately, I’ve been sitting with them more personally.
A month back, I heard news of my therapist passing.
We had already ended our regular sessions last year, when she fell ill and had to retire. There was no final goodbye—just the hope that when she felt better, we’d do a proper therapy closure. I told myself I’d wait.
But life got full. I moved on. She would surface in my thoughts now and then—our work, her presence—but I never quite knew if I should reach out. Not until this March, when I returned from the States and felt called to initiate the therapy closure. I did not want to have any missed opportunities.
And we met for what became our final therapy session.
I remember it vividly—not for what was said, but for the kind of familiar presence that filled the space. I knew it would be the last time I saw her. I didn’t think it; I felt it. That awareness of time thickening, becoming real. Death no longer felt far away or thereotical. It was in the room with us.
Talks about my family, or recent events in my life didn’t seem to matter. We were just… two human beings, sitting with what we knew. That this was the end. Or at least, the end of something.
I teared up at different moments. Not because anything was wrong, but because something was deeply real. Our work was being honoured.
At the end of that session, I told her I was looking forward to her new book coming out. I joked—only half joking—that I wanted to send her a copy to sign and send back to me.
Maybe that was my way of trying to keep something going.
To hold on to a thread.
To not have it all end just yet.
But she passed on—before her book was published.
I knew it might happen someday, but the news still shook me. Maybe we’re never quite prepared. Even when we think we are.
And so I’ve been thinking a lot about endings in psychotherapy. About the way we often say goodbye assuming we’ll see each other again. About how we rarely know when something is truly the last time.
In therapy, I often emphasise therapy closure. We thrive for good endings. But life doesn’t always follow that structure. Sometimes, we only realise it was a goodbye in hindsight.
Still, my relationship with her doesn’t feel entirely over.
Her book was released last week, and I received my copy yesterday.
As I hold onto the book, I imagine what she might have said if we could still talk about it. I find myself wishing it had her signature—something to hold onto.
And I feel called to publish this piece too.Perhaps another way of remaining in connection with her?
And it makes me wonder:
Do some relationships keep living on, even after they’ve ended?
Where does someone go when they’re no longer here, but still very much with you?
I don’t have clear answers.
But I wanted to share this with you—not as a tribute, and not as a lesson. Perhaps just a little existential question we all will face:
What endings are still quietly unfolding in the background of your life?
About the Author
Hi, I'm Mag: a UKCP-accredited counselling psychologist and founder of Singapore’s first ever existential practice. My care philosophy is not to diagnose, label, or categorise but rather to work with the individual in front of me in the here and now.
My clinical credentials certainly play a significant role in defining my professional identity. But to foster a deeper connection and authenticity, I invite you to discover my other “Selves”, the various facets of who I am.
