There are certain questions that we are not meant to answer—but continually ponder.
The question of what comes after death is one of them.
Betty White once shared her own mother’s view of death near the end of her life—a saying that soothed Betty’s own fear of death—that once someone passes we can say: “Now they know the secret.” There’s wisdom in that levity. A reminder that what we believe we understand in this world is always partial. Temporary. Filtered through the limitations of physical reality.
From a Kabbalistic perspective, death is not an ending—it is a transition. The elevation of our soul beyond the body. The Psalms describe it as a homecoming, “a delight to sit in His shade.” The Roman practice of memento mori—remember you are mortal—was not meant to diminish our lives, but to give them deeper meaning. Especially in moments of triumph, we are reminded: this is not the whole story.
Sitting with the idea of death is not meant to be morbid. Far from it! It is meant to bring us an even greater consciousness—whether that is waking up with awe at the gift of another day, having appreciation for every corner of your life, or loving even deeper. Especially because we experience death in many forms throughout our lives.
The end of a relationship.
Our graduations from high school and college.
Leaving our family home and beginning our adult life.
Closing out a significant chapter.
We have all already “died” many times.
Hospice workers often say that at the end of life, what matters the most becomes very clear. It isn’t our accomplishments, our possessions, our bank accounts. It is our relationships. Love. Regret. Forgiveness. Presence. It aligns naturally with what the kabbalists have taught: that the only thing we truly take with us is the good deeds we do while we’re here.
I’ve learned that pain near the end of life can serve a spiritual purpose. Not as punishment but as an invitation to that higher consciousness. As preparation. Kabbalah teaches that the soul sheds layers as it prepares for its next incarnation, releasing attachments that no longer serve it. Holding this perspective has helped me sit with the suffering of someone I love, trusting that nothing—no moment, no pain—is wasted.
Still, grief does not arrive politely. It doesn’t always sound enlightened. Sometimes it sounds angry. Profane. Exhausted. Sometimes it just says, I can’t do this anymore.
And that, too, is part of the process.
We live in a culture obsessed with completion. Closure. Checking boxes. Fixing, resolving, arriving. But Kabbalah teaches that this world is inherently incomplete—and that’s not a flaw, it’s the design. The work is not to finish everything, but to engage consciously with what remains unfinished.
Matt Haig writes about “completists”—people who struggle deeply with loose ends. Yet life is full of them. Dreams that don’t manifest. Conversations that never happen. Forgiveness that arrives late, or not at all. The hardest spiritual work is not to resolve every thread, but to be at peace with what remains undone.
This is where love becomes our greatest teacher. I’ll invite you to spend some time contemplating the mystery of death. This week, notice one place in your life where you are seeking closure, completion, or fairness—an answer, an apology, a resolution. Instead of trying to fix it, practice allowing it—pause, breathe, and let it remain unfinished.
Release the need for tidiness or fairness and shift toward care—instead of asking “what’s fair?” ask, “What’s most loving? Or kind? right now?”
End each day with a moment of reverence. Ask yourself: What am I proud of today? Was it how I shared? How I laughed? How I loved my people?
It may not be the last day of your life, but if it was you could end it with pride and gratitude instead of fear or regret. Ironically, this is exactly how we are invited to live.
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