We always tell ourselves, “Everything happens for a reason.” But does it really? Or are we just too scared—or too numb—to accept that sometimes life doesn’t come with an explanation? Maybe we’re hunting for lessons because we don’t know how else to comfort ourselves.
Was it the universe protecting me? A sign? Karma? A “what’s meant for you won’t miss you” moment in disguise? Your bestie telling you “a bigger blessing is on the way” to support your delulu?
Maybe. Or maybe we’re just romanticizing the pain so it doesn’t break us completely.
We tell ourselves we need closure. One last talk, one honest answer, one explanation, to finally quiet the storm in our chest. But here’s the truth that no one tells you: closure doesn’t come from them. It never has. Not your ex, not your old friend who suddenly gave you the Irish goodbye, not the job that rejected you after making you daydream.
The worst part isn’t the ending itself. It’s the endless rerun of the story in your head. The questions that keep you awake at night. The conversations you replay a thousand times, trying to find the exact moment it all slipped away. The ache of not knowing why. Almost instinctively, we hunt for meaning. For a lesson. For something to make it all make sense.
Your ex won’t tell you they didn’t love you enough, even if that’s the truth. They’ll find another excuse, say they “weren’t ready.” Your old friend won’t admit they envied you, they’ll say “I needed space.” People don’t hand you their ugliest truths because those truths don’t fit the image they want to leave behind. No one wants to be the villain in your story—they’re too busy protecting their ego.
And that’s why closure feels impossible, because you’re basically asking someone to admit that they’re not the main character in the story. Good luck with that, most people would rather fake amnesia than hand you honesty (he was a closeted gay).
So what do we do? We write romantic novels in our Notes app. We spiral. We pick apart text messages like they’re the Rosetta Stone. We reenact conversations in the shower like we’re in a dramatic Turkish romance series, somehow winning arguments we lost six months ago. We look for meaning where there is none, because believing there’s a lesson makes the pain feel less random, less cruel.
And maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Pain turns into lessons. Lessons shape our identity. Identity builds strength. Without the sting, without the ache, we’d never be forced to grow. We’d never become who we’re meant to be.
Failure isn’t weakness—it’s power. Hurt isn’t the end—it’s the beginning.
If you learn to channel it, to accept it, to sit with it long enough to let it move through you, pain becomes your biggest weapon. It’s what turns endings into beginnings, heartbreak into resilience, loss into rebirth.
And maybe that’s the secret: closure doesn’t come from someone giving you the answer. It comes from realizing you’ll never get one—and that you don’t need it to move on. Because even if they told you the ugly truth, would it really fix anything? Or would it form another wound, another excuse to search for a new lesson to cushion the blow?
The truth is, you already have the answer. You always did. The closure was never in an explanation—it was in your acceptance.
Sometimes we fall into patterns we know aren’t good for us, chase fleeting comfort, distract ourselves with noise, friends, or random adventures just to avoid sitting with our thoughts. And that’s okay. That’s human. That’s part of learning.
So if you’re still waiting for the text, the call, the apology, the explanation—let this be it. This is your sign. Your ending. Your bow. The moment you stop waiting for someone else to give you peace and finally give it to yourself.
Because closure isn’t something they hand you. It’s something you take. And when you finally do, that’s when the story truly ends—and you get to start writing the next one.
