ENTER
CREATIVE CONSULTANCY X EXPERIENCE DESIGN
EXPLORING HUMAN AND MORE-THAN-HUMAN IMAGINATION AT THE INTERSECTION OF ART AND TECHNOLOGY
by Andy Chaleff
“Little Deaths” Throughout Life
There are times in life when you search for a term to describe an experience, but none exists. In my forties, I coined the term "little deaths" to capture such moments. These “little deaths” were filled with such profound emotional loss that they resembled the pain of death itself. It was perplexing because, despite the overwhelming sadness and pain, the source of these emotions was difficult to identify. The pain felt disproportionate to the situation. For that reason, I also came to refer to this feeling as “ambiguous loss.”
The first “little death” I remember was my high school graduation. High school was a formative time for me, it was where I built my social identity and experienced self-confidence for the first time. Saying farewell was deeply painful. Thoughts like 'I will never experience this again', 'This is an end', and 'These friends are gone forever' dominated my mind. The intensity of these thoughts evoked the same feelings I associate with death—a sense of helplessness and permanence.
When I reflect on all the little deaths over the course of my life, the list is extensive:the end of significant relationships, the loss of jobs, financial insecurity, deteriorating health, relocating homes, and, something many can relate to, selling the home I grew up in. A particularly poignant example for parents is when a child leaves home, leaving them feeling as if a critical part of their life is over.
In a recent conversation, a friend whose last child had just left home shared,
'Honestly, it's harder than I thought. I keep wandering into his room, expecting to see him there. And every time I realize he’s not, it just hits me all over again.'
I empathized, saying, 'That sounds really tough. It’s like you’re grieving.'
'It does feel like a sort of grief. I’m happy for him, really, I am. He’s starting his own life, which is wonderful, but I just didn’t expect to feel this loss so deeply,' he admitted.
'You've spent so many years caring for them, and suddenly, your daily life changes completely,' I noted.
'Yes, that’s exactly it. My whole identity was wrapped up in being a dad, and now, I’m not sure what my role is anymore. It's like I've lost a part of myself,' he reflected.
Beneath these “little deaths,” I recognized a common thread: each was marked by a deep attachment to something I was reluctant to lose. Sometimes this attachment was to people whose absence would leave a massive void in my life, like a girlfriend or an office buddy. Other times, it was connected to experiences, such as selling my childhood home or leaving a beloved company. These were moments I found difficult to release, as the pain seemed disproportionate to the reality of the situation. I often felt like curling up in a ball and crying, but instead, I might shed just a tear, worried that sharing the depth of my actual pain would be viewed as exaggerated.
I remember the moment I came closest to fully experiencing one of these “little deaths.” I was leaving Japan after living there for two years. In the days leading up to my departure, I found myself weeping daily. The weight of leaving behind a place that had become home, and people who had become family, was almost unbearable.
One evening, as my departure loomed ever closer, I sat down for one of my last dinners with my best friend, Hideki. The atmosphere was heavy with unspoken emotions. As we talked and reminisced about our time together, tears began to flow unexpectedly. At first, I tried to hold them back, but the dam broke, and I let the tears come.
Hideki, sitting across from me, didn't say a word. He didn't need to. Tears welled up in his eyes too, and soon we were both weeping, sharing a profound, unspoken understanding of the loss we were about to endure. At that moment, no words were necessary. The grief was tangible; it enveloped us, marking the end of a significant chapter in our lives.
Although it wasn't an actual death, the farewell carried the weight of finality. It marked the end of our chapter together. There was another example of such a loss, but in a very different context—the deterioration of the body.
In a recent conversation with a friend, he shared his struggles.
'I’ve been feeling really down lately. It’s like every day, there's something else I can't do anymore.'
'I'm sorry to hear that,' I replied. 'It must be tough to face those changes.'
'It's more than tough,' he continued. 'It feels like I’m losing parts of myself. Just last week, I realized I can no longer manage the stairs to my workshop. That was my sanctuary.'
'That sounds incredibly hard,' I responded. 'Losing access to something that meant so much to you... I can only imagine.'
'It’s like every bit of independence I lose, I mourn it. It’s not just the workshop. It’s the little things, like not being able to open jars or tie my shoes. I never thought those things would matter so much,' he explained.
'It’s understandable to feel that way,' I assured him. 'Each of those things represents a part of your life, a part of who you are.'
He nodded, 'Exactly. And with each thing I can no longer do, I have to say goodbye to that part of my life. It’s a series of losses, you know?'
In all of these discussions, one word has been mentioned a few times, but I want to take a moment to highlight its significance. Let's formally welcome 'identity' into our conversations. This word has come to hold profound meaning in my life because it encapsulates so many of my daily reflections. One question I often ask myself is, How is my way of seeing things so tied to my identity that I cannot even view it without bias? Can I ever truly know what that bias is?
When I apply this to the aspect of saying goodbye to parts of ourselves, I realize that the hardest things to let go of are those most strongly attached to my identity. And just to be clear, this identity is who I believe myself to be, either consciously or unconsciously. For instance, if I say, “I am a great partner,” it would be challenging for me to acknowledge that sometimes I am not a good partner because it is part of my identity.
No matter how many things I believe I've let go of, there always seems to be another aspect of my identity, another lingering attachment. For example, the pride I take in my career achievements, the sense of security from my financial stability, and even my self-image as a competent and reliable person are all deeply ingrained parts of who I am. Letting go of the notion that I must always succeed, or the idea that my worth is tied to my productivity, is incredibly challenging. And of course, there are identities that are core to who we are on the most fundamental of levels.
As I write this chapter, I am leaving Indonesia, where I visited my in-laws with my wife Rani. Although my own parents have passed away, Rani's parents are aging but still with us. Each farewell is laden with the heavy possibility that it might be the last, drawing deep tears from Rani as she confronts the painful reality that her parents will not always be part of her life. This impending loss is a significant part of her identity as a devoted daughter, a role with which she has not yet come to terms.
Throughout this process, I've noticed that the more Rani engages with the pain of her anticipated loss, the more loving and patient she becomes, both with herself and others. Conversely, when she distances herself from this pain, she tends to become easily agitated and frustrated, often saying things she later regrets.
Letting go is never easy, but as I often remind myself, avoiding it doesn't shield us from its consequences. Life presents a great paradox: by embracing pain, we open ourselves to joy. It is through accepting the pain of loss that we can truly appreciate and celebrate what we have now, no matter how ephemeral it may be.
Eckhart Tolle captures this beautifully with his words, “The secret of life is to ‘die before you die’ and find that there is no death.” These little deaths are my practice runs. By learning to navigate each one, I am gradually preparing myself for my own eventual end, potentially realizing that I have metaphorically died before my actual death.
MEDITATIVE QUESTIONS: “Little Deaths” Throughout Life
Experiencing “Little Deaths”: Reflect on a little death you have experienced, such as the end of a significant relationship or a major life transition. How did this experience affect you emotionally, and what did you learn from it?
Ambiguous Loss: How do you cope with feelings of ambiguous loss, where the source of pain is not easily identifiable or seems disproportionate to the situation? What strategies have you found helpful in managing these emotions?
Letting Go and Embracing Change: How do you handle the process of letting go, whetherit's saying goodbye to a beloved place, a cherished role, or a familiar routine? What can you do to navigate these transitions with greater acceptance and peace?
Navigating Anticipated Loss: Reflect on a current or anticipated loss in your life. How can you prepare yourself emotionally for this loss, and how might engaging with the pain of this loss help you become more loving and patient with yourself and others?
Extract formatted for this web zine(Chapter11) from Chaleff, A. 2025. Dying to Live. Finding Life’s Meaning Through Death (Spiritual Memoir). Meaningful Relations Consulting LLC
“Little Deaths” Throughout Life
There are times in life when you search for a term to describe an experience, but none exists. In my forties, I coined the term "little deaths" to capture such moments. These “little deaths” were filled with such profound emotional loss that they resembled the pain of death itself. It was perplexing because, despite the overwhelming sadness and pain, the source of these emotions was difficult to identify. The pain felt disproportionate to the situation. For that reason, I also came to refer to this feeling as “ambiguous loss.”
The first “little death” I remember was my high school graduation. High school was a formative time for me, it was where I built my social identity and experienced self-confidence for the first time. Saying farewell was deeply painful. Thoughts like 'I will never experience this again', 'This is an end', and 'These friends are gone forever' dominated my mind. The intensity of these thoughts evoked the same feelings I associate with death—a sense of helplessness and permanence.
When I reflect on all the little deaths over the course of my life, the list is extensive:the end of significant relationships, the loss of jobs, financial insecurity, deteriorating health, relocating homes, and, something many can relate to, selling the home I grew up in. A particularly poignant example for parents is when a child leaves home, leaving them feeling as if a critical part of their life is over.
In a recent conversation, a friend whose last child had just left home shared,
'Honestly, it's harder than I thought. I keep wandering into his room, expecting to see him there. And every time I realize he’s not, it just hits me all over again.'
I empathized, saying, 'That sounds really tough. It’s like you’re grieving.'
'It does feel like a sort of grief. I’m happy for him, really, I am. He’s starting his own life, which is wonderful, but I just didn’t expect to feel this loss so deeply,' he admitted.
'You've spent so many years caring for them, and suddenly, your daily life changes completely,' I noted.
'Yes, that’s exactly it. My whole identity was wrapped up in being a dad, and now, I’m not sure what my role is anymore. It's like I've lost a part of myself,' he reflected.
Beneath these “little deaths,” I recognized a common thread: each was marked by a deep attachment to something I was reluctant to lose. Sometimes this attachment was to people whose absence would leave a massive void in my life, like a girlfriend or an office buddy. Other times, it was connected to experiences, such as selling my childhood home or leaving a beloved company. These were moments I found difficult to release, as the pain seemed disproportionate to the reality of the situation. I often felt like curling up in a ball and crying, but instead, I might shed just a tear, worried that sharing the depth of my actual pain would be viewed as exaggerated.
I remember the moment I came closest to fully experiencing one of these “little deaths.” I was leaving Japan after living there for two years. In the days leading up to my departure, I found myself weeping daily. The weight of leaving behind a place that had become home, and people who had become family, was almost unbearable.
One evening, as my departure loomed ever closer, I sat down for one of my last dinners with my best friend, Hideki. The atmosphere was heavy with unspoken emotions. As we talked and reminisced about our time together, tears began to flow unexpectedly. At first, I tried to hold them back, but the dam broke, and I let the tears come.
Hideki, sitting across from me, didn't say a word. He didn't need to. Tears welled up in his eyes too, and soon we were both weeping, sharing a profound, unspoken understanding of the loss we were about to endure. At that moment, no words were necessary. The grief was tangible; it enveloped us, marking the end of a significant chapter in our lives.
Although it wasn't an actual death, the farewell carried the weight of finality. It marked the end of our chapter together. There was another example of such a loss, but in a very different context—the deterioration of the body.
In a recent conversation with a friend, he shared his struggles.
'I’ve been feeling really down lately. It’s like every day, there's something else I can't do anymore.'
'I'm sorry to hear that,' I replied. 'It must be tough to face those changes.'
'It's more than tough,' he continued. 'It feels like I’m losing parts of myself. Just last week, I realized I can no longer manage the stairs to my workshop. That was my sanctuary.'
'That sounds incredibly hard,' I responded. 'Losing access to something that meant so much to you... I can only imagine.'
'It’s like every bit of independence I lose, I mourn it. It’s not just the workshop. It’s the little things, like not being able to open jars or tie my shoes. I never thought those things would matter so much,' he explained.
'It’s understandable to feel that way,' I assured him. 'Each of those things represents a part of your life, a part of who you are.'
He nodded, 'Exactly. And with each thing I can no longer do, I have to say goodbye to that part of my life. It’s a series of losses, you know?'
In all of these discussions, one word has been mentioned a few times, but I want to take a moment to highlight its significance. Let's formally welcome 'identity' into our conversations. This word has come to hold profound meaning in my life because it encapsulates so many of my daily reflections. One question I often ask myself is, How is my way of seeing things so tied to my identity that I cannot even view it without bias? Can I ever truly know what that bias is?
When I apply this to the aspect of saying goodbye to parts of ourselves, I realize that the hardest things to let go of are those most strongly attached to my identity. And just to be clear, this identity is who I believe myself to be, either consciously or unconsciously. For instance, if I say, “I am a great partner,” it would be challenging for me to acknowledge that sometimes I am not a good partner because it is part of my identity.
No matter how many things I believe I've let go of, there always seems to be another aspect of my identity, another lingering attachment. For example, the pride I take in my career achievements, the sense of security from my financial stability, and even my self-image as a competent and reliable person are all deeply ingrained parts of who I am. Letting go of the notion that I must always succeed, or the idea that my worth is tied to my productivity, is incredibly challenging. And of course, there are identities that are core to who we are on the most fundamental of levels.
As I write this chapter, I am leaving Indonesia, where I visited my in-laws with my wife Rani. Although my own parents have passed away, Rani's parents are aging but still with us. Each farewell is laden with the heavy possibility that it might be the last, drawing deep tears from Rani as she confronts the painful reality that her parents will not always be part of her life. This impending loss is a significant part of her identity as a devoted daughter, a role with which she has not yet come to terms.
Throughout this process, I've noticed that the more Rani engages with the pain of her anticipated loss, the more loving and patient she becomes, both with herself and others. Conversely, when she distances herself from this pain, she tends to become easily agitated and frustrated, often saying things she later regrets.
Letting go is never easy, but as I often remind myself, avoiding it doesn't shield us from its consequences. Life presents a great paradox: by embracing pain, we open ourselves to joy. It is through accepting the pain of loss that we can truly appreciate and celebrate what we have now, no matter how ephemeral it may be.
Eckhart Tolle captures this beautifully with his words, “The secret of life is to ‘die before you die’ and find that there is no death.” These little deaths are my practice runs. By learning to navigate each one, I am gradually preparing myself for my own eventual end, potentially realizing that I have metaphorically died before my actual death.
MEDITATIVE QUESTIONS: “Little Deaths” Throughout Life
Experiencing “Little Deaths”: Reflect on a little death you have experienced, such as the end of a significant relationship or a major life transition. How did this experience affect you emotionally, and what did you learn from it?
Ambiguous Loss: How do you cope with feelings of ambiguous loss, where the source of pain is not easily identifiable or seems disproportionate to the situation? What strategies have you found helpful in managing these emotions?
Letting Go and Embracing Change: How do you handle the process of letting go, whetherit's saying goodbye to a beloved place, a cherished role, or a familiar routine? What can you do to navigate these transitions with greater acceptance and peace?
Navigating Anticipated Loss: Reflect on a current or anticipated loss in your life. How can you prepare yourself emotionally for this loss, and how might engaging with the pain of this loss help you become more loving and patient with yourself and others?
Extract formatted for this web zine(Chapter11) from Chaleff, A. 2025. Dying to Live. Finding Life’s Meaning Through Death (Spiritual Memoir). Meaningful Relations Consulting LLC
Andy Chaleff is an author, mentor, and speaker whose life and work are grounded in radical emotional honesty. His latest book, Dying to Live, is out now.
by Andy Chaleff
“Little Deaths” Throughout Life
There are times in life when you search for a term to describe an experience, but none exists. In my forties, I coined the term "little deaths" to capture such moments. These “little deaths” were filled with such profound emotional loss that they resembled the pain of death itself. It was perplexing because, despite the overwhelming sadness and pain, the source of these emotions was difficult to identify. The pain felt disproportionate to the situation. For that reason, I also came to refer to this feeling as “ambiguous loss.”
The first “little death” I remember was my high school graduation. High school was a formative time for me, it was where I built my social identity and experienced self-confidence for the first time. Saying farewell was deeply painful. Thoughts like 'I will never experience this again', 'This is an end', and 'These friends are gone forever' dominated my mind. The intensity of these thoughts evoked the same feelings I associate with death—a sense of helplessness and permanence.
When I reflect on all the little deaths over the course of my life, the list is extensive:the end of significant relationships, the loss of jobs, financial insecurity, deteriorating health, relocating homes, and, something many can relate to, selling the home I grew up in. A particularly poignant example for parents is when a child leaves home, leaving them feeling as if a critical part of their life is over.
In a recent conversation, a friend whose last child had just left home shared,
'Honestly, it's harder than I thought. I keep wandering into his room, expecting to see him there. And every time I realize he’s not, it just hits me all over again.'
I empathized, saying, 'That sounds really tough. It’s like you’re grieving.'
'It does feel like a sort of grief. I’m happy for him, really, I am. He’s starting his own life, which is wonderful, but I just didn’t expect to feel this loss so deeply,' he admitted.
'You've spent so many years caring for them, and suddenly, your daily life changes completely,' I noted.
'Yes, that’s exactly it. My whole identity was wrapped up in being a dad, and now, I’m not sure what my role is anymore. It's like I've lost a part of myself,' he reflected.
Beneath these “little deaths,” I recognized a common thread: each was marked by a deep attachment to something I was reluctant to lose. Sometimes this attachment was to people whose absence would leave a massive void in my life, like a girlfriend or an office buddy. Other times, it was connected to experiences, such as selling my childhood home or leaving a beloved company. These were moments I found difficult to release, as the pain seemed disproportionate to the reality of the situation. I often felt like curling up in a ball and crying, but instead, I might shed just a tear, worried that sharing the depth of my actual pain would be viewed as exaggerated.
I remember the moment I came closest to fully experiencing one of these “little deaths.” I was leaving Japan after living there for two years. In the days leading up to my departure, I found myself weeping daily. The weight of leaving behind a place that had become home, and people who had become family, was almost unbearable.
One evening, as my departure loomed ever closer, I sat down for one of my last dinners with my best friend, Hideki. The atmosphere was heavy with unspoken emotions. As we talked and reminisced about our time together, tears began to flow unexpectedly. At first, I tried to hold them back, but the dam broke, and I let the tears come.
Hideki, sitting across from me, didn't say a word. He didn't need to. Tears welled up in his eyes too, and soon we were both weeping, sharing a profound, unspoken understanding of the loss we were about to endure. At that moment, no words were necessary. The grief was tangible; it enveloped us, marking the end of a significant chapter in our lives.
Although it wasn't an actual death, the farewell carried the weight of finality. It marked the end of our chapter together. There was another example of such a loss, but in a very different context—the deterioration of the body.
In a recent conversation with a friend, he shared his struggles.
'I’ve been feeling really down lately. It’s like every day, there's something else I can't do anymore.'
'I'm sorry to hear that,' I replied. 'It must be tough to face those changes.'
'It's more than tough,' he continued. 'It feels like I’m losing parts of myself. Just last week, I realized I can no longer manage the stairs to my workshop. That was my sanctuary.'
'That sounds incredibly hard,' I responded. 'Losing access to something that meant so much to you... I can only imagine.'
'It’s like every bit of independence I lose, I mourn it. It’s not just the workshop. It’s the little things, like not being able to open jars or tie my shoes. I never thought those things would matter so much,' he explained.
'It’s understandable to feel that way,' I assured him. 'Each of those things represents a part of your life, a part of who you are.'
He nodded, 'Exactly. And with each thing I can no longer do, I have to say goodbye to that part of my life. It’s a series of losses, you know?'
In all of these discussions, one word has been mentioned a few times, but I want to take a moment to highlight its significance. Let's formally welcome 'identity' into our conversations. This word has come to hold profound meaning in my life because it encapsulates so many of my daily reflections. One question I often ask myself is, How is my way of seeing things so tied to my identity that I cannot even view it without bias? Can I ever truly know what that bias is?
When I apply this to the aspect of saying goodbye to parts of ourselves, I realize that the hardest things to let go of are those most strongly attached to my identity. And just to be clear, this identity is who I believe myself to be, either consciously or unconsciously. For instance, if I say, “I am a great partner,” it would be challenging for me to acknowledge that sometimes I am not a good partner because it is part of my identity.
No matter how many things I believe I've let go of, there always seems to be another aspect of my identity, another lingering attachment. For example, the pride I take in my career achievements, the sense of security from my financial stability, and even my self-image as a competent and reliable person are all deeply ingrained parts of who I am. Letting go of the notion that I must always succeed, or the idea that my worth is tied to my productivity, is incredibly challenging. And of course, there are identities that are core to who we are on the most fundamental of levels.
As I write this chapter, I am leaving Indonesia, where I visited my in-laws with my wife Rani. Although my own parents have passed away, Rani's parents are aging but still with us. Each farewell is laden with the heavy possibility that it might be the last, drawing deep tears from Rani as she confronts the painful reality that her parents will not always be part of her life. This impending loss is a significant part of her identity as a devoted daughter, a role with which she has not yet come to terms.
Throughout this process, I've noticed that the more Rani engages with the pain of her anticipated loss, the more loving and patient she becomes, both with herself and others. Conversely, when she distances herself from this pain, she tends to become easily agitated and frustrated, often saying things she later regrets.
Letting go is never easy, but as I often remind myself, avoiding it doesn't shield us from its consequences. Life presents a great paradox: by embracing pain, we open ourselves to joy. It is through accepting the pain of loss that we can truly appreciate and celebrate what we have now, no matter how ephemeral it may be.
Eckhart Tolle captures this beautifully with his words, “The secret of life is to ‘die before you die’ and find that there is no death.” These little deaths are my practice runs. By learning to navigate each one, I am gradually preparing myself for my own eventual end, potentially realizing that I have metaphorically died before my actual death.
MEDITATIVE QUESTIONS: “Little Deaths” Throughout Life
Experiencing “Little Deaths”: Reflect on a little death you have experienced, such as the end of a significant relationship or a major life transition. How did this experience affect you emotionally, and what did you learn from it?
Ambiguous Loss: How do you cope with feelings of ambiguous loss, where the source of pain is not easily identifiable or seems disproportionate to the situation? What strategies have you found helpful in managing these emotions?
Letting Go and Embracing Change: How do you handle the process of letting go, whetherit's saying goodbye to a beloved place, a cherished role, or a familiar routine? What can you do to navigate these transitions with greater acceptance and peace?
Navigating Anticipated Loss: Reflect on a current or anticipated loss in your life. How can you prepare yourself emotionally for this loss, and how might engaging with the pain of this loss help you become more loving and patient with yourself and others?
Extract formatted for this web zine(Chapter11) from Chaleff, A. 2025. Dying to Live. Finding Life’s Meaning Through Death (Spiritual Memoir). Meaningful Relations Consulting LLC
“Little Deaths” Throughout Life
There are times in life when you search for a term to describe an experience, but none exists. In my forties, I coined the term "little deaths" to capture such moments. These “little deaths” were filled with such profound emotional loss that they resembled the pain of death itself. It was perplexing because, despite the overwhelming sadness and pain, the source of these emotions was difficult to identify. The pain felt disproportionate to the situation. For that reason, I also came to refer to this feeling as “ambiguous loss.”
The first “little death” I remember was my high school graduation. High school was a formative time for me, it was where I built my social identity and experienced self-confidence for the first time. Saying farewell was deeply painful. Thoughts like 'I will never experience this again', 'This is an end', and 'These friends are gone forever' dominated my mind. The intensity of these thoughts evoked the same feelings I associate with death—a sense of helplessness and permanence.
When I reflect on all the little deaths over the course of my life, the list is extensive:the end of significant relationships, the loss of jobs, financial insecurity, deteriorating health, relocating homes, and, something many can relate to, selling the home I grew up in. A particularly poignant example for parents is when a child leaves home, leaving them feeling as if a critical part of their life is over.
In a recent conversation, a friend whose last child had just left home shared,
'Honestly, it's harder than I thought. I keep wandering into his room, expecting to see him there. And every time I realize he’s not, it just hits me all over again.'
I empathized, saying, 'That sounds really tough. It’s like you’re grieving.'
'It does feel like a sort of grief. I’m happy for him, really, I am. He’s starting his own life, which is wonderful, but I just didn’t expect to feel this loss so deeply,' he admitted.
'You've spent so many years caring for them, and suddenly, your daily life changes completely,' I noted.
'Yes, that’s exactly it. My whole identity was wrapped up in being a dad, and now, I’m not sure what my role is anymore. It's like I've lost a part of myself,' he reflected.
Beneath these “little deaths,” I recognized a common thread: each was marked by a deep attachment to something I was reluctant to lose. Sometimes this attachment was to people whose absence would leave a massive void in my life, like a girlfriend or an office buddy. Other times, it was connected to experiences, such as selling my childhood home or leaving a beloved company. These were moments I found difficult to release, as the pain seemed disproportionate to the reality of the situation. I often felt like curling up in a ball and crying, but instead, I might shed just a tear, worried that sharing the depth of my actual pain would be viewed as exaggerated.
I remember the moment I came closest to fully experiencing one of these “little deaths.” I was leaving Japan after living there for two years. In the days leading up to my departure, I found myself weeping daily. The weight of leaving behind a place that had become home, and people who had become family, was almost unbearable.
One evening, as my departure loomed ever closer, I sat down for one of my last dinners with my best friend, Hideki. The atmosphere was heavy with unspoken emotions. As we talked and reminisced about our time together, tears began to flow unexpectedly. At first, I tried to hold them back, but the dam broke, and I let the tears come.
Hideki, sitting across from me, didn't say a word. He didn't need to. Tears welled up in his eyes too, and soon we were both weeping, sharing a profound, unspoken understanding of the loss we were about to endure. At that moment, no words were necessary. The grief was tangible; it enveloped us, marking the end of a significant chapter in our lives.
Although it wasn't an actual death, the farewell carried the weight of finality. It marked the end of our chapter together. There was another example of such a loss, but in a very different context—the deterioration of the body.
In a recent conversation with a friend, he shared his struggles.
'I’ve been feeling really down lately. It’s like every day, there's something else I can't do anymore.'
'I'm sorry to hear that,' I replied. 'It must be tough to face those changes.'
'It's more than tough,' he continued. 'It feels like I’m losing parts of myself. Just last week, I realized I can no longer manage the stairs to my workshop. That was my sanctuary.'
'That sounds incredibly hard,' I responded. 'Losing access to something that meant so much to you... I can only imagine.'
'It’s like every bit of independence I lose, I mourn it. It’s not just the workshop. It’s the little things, like not being able to open jars or tie my shoes. I never thought those things would matter so much,' he explained.
'It’s understandable to feel that way,' I assured him. 'Each of those things represents a part of your life, a part of who you are.'
He nodded, 'Exactly. And with each thing I can no longer do, I have to say goodbye to that part of my life. It’s a series of losses, you know?'
In all of these discussions, one word has been mentioned a few times, but I want to take a moment to highlight its significance. Let's formally welcome 'identity' into our conversations. This word has come to hold profound meaning in my life because it encapsulates so many of my daily reflections. One question I often ask myself is, How is my way of seeing things so tied to my identity that I cannot even view it without bias? Can I ever truly know what that bias is?
When I apply this to the aspect of saying goodbye to parts of ourselves, I realize that the hardest things to let go of are those most strongly attached to my identity. And just to be clear, this identity is who I believe myself to be, either consciously or unconsciously. For instance, if I say, “I am a great partner,” it would be challenging for me to acknowledge that sometimes I am not a good partner because it is part of my identity.
No matter how many things I believe I've let go of, there always seems to be another aspect of my identity, another lingering attachment. For example, the pride I take in my career achievements, the sense of security from my financial stability, and even my self-image as a competent and reliable person are all deeply ingrained parts of who I am. Letting go of the notion that I must always succeed, or the idea that my worth is tied to my productivity, is incredibly challenging. And of course, there are identities that are core to who we are on the most fundamental of levels.
As I write this chapter, I am leaving Indonesia, where I visited my in-laws with my wife Rani. Although my own parents have passed away, Rani's parents are aging but still with us. Each farewell is laden with the heavy possibility that it might be the last, drawing deep tears from Rani as she confronts the painful reality that her parents will not always be part of her life. This impending loss is a significant part of her identity as a devoted daughter, a role with which she has not yet come to terms.
Throughout this process, I've noticed that the more Rani engages with the pain of her anticipated loss, the more loving and patient she becomes, both with herself and others. Conversely, when she distances herself from this pain, she tends to become easily agitated and frustrated, often saying things she later regrets.
Letting go is never easy, but as I often remind myself, avoiding it doesn't shield us from its consequences. Life presents a great paradox: by embracing pain, we open ourselves to joy. It is through accepting the pain of loss that we can truly appreciate and celebrate what we have now, no matter how ephemeral it may be.
Eckhart Tolle captures this beautifully with his words, “The secret of life is to ‘die before you die’ and find that there is no death.” These little deaths are my practice runs. By learning to navigate each one, I am gradually preparing myself for my own eventual end, potentially realizing that I have metaphorically died before my actual death.
MEDITATIVE QUESTIONS: “Little Deaths” Throughout Life
Experiencing “Little Deaths”: Reflect on a little death you have experienced, such as the end of a significant relationship or a major life transition. How did this experience affect you emotionally, and what did you learn from it?
Ambiguous Loss: How do you cope with feelings of ambiguous loss, where the source of pain is not easily identifiable or seems disproportionate to the situation? What strategies have you found helpful in managing these emotions?
Letting Go and Embracing Change: How do you handle the process of letting go, whetherit's saying goodbye to a beloved place, a cherished role, or a familiar routine? What can you do to navigate these transitions with greater acceptance and peace?
Navigating Anticipated Loss: Reflect on a current or anticipated loss in your life. How can you prepare yourself emotionally for this loss, and how might engaging with the pain of this loss help you become more loving and patient with yourself and others?
Extract formatted for this web zine(Chapter11) from Chaleff, A. 2025. Dying to Live. Finding Life’s Meaning Through Death (Spiritual Memoir). Meaningful Relations Consulting LLC
Andy Chaleff is an author, mentor, and speaker whose life and work are grounded in radical emotional honesty. His latest book, Dying to Live, is out now.
by Andy Chaleff
“Little Deaths” Throughout Life
There are times in life when you search for a term to describe an experience, but none exists. In my forties, I coined the term "little deaths" to capture such moments. These “little deaths” were filled with such profound emotional loss that they resembled the pain of death itself. It was perplexing because, despite the overwhelming sadness and pain, the source of these emotions was difficult to identify. The pain felt disproportionate to the situation. For that reason, I also came to refer to this feeling as “ambiguous loss.”
The first “little death” I remember was my high school graduation. High school was a formative time for me, it was where I built my social identity and experienced self-confidence for the first time. Saying farewell was deeply painful. Thoughts like 'I will never experience this again', 'This is an end', and 'These friends are gone forever' dominated my mind. The intensity of these thoughts evoked the same feelings I associate with death—a sense of helplessness and permanence.
When I reflect on all the little deaths over the course of my life, the list is extensive:the end of significant relationships, the loss of jobs, financial insecurity, deteriorating health, relocating homes, and, something many can relate to, selling the home I grew up in. A particularly poignant example for parents is when a child leaves home, leaving them feeling as if a critical part of their life is over.
In a recent conversation, a friend whose last child had just left home shared,
'Honestly, it's harder than I thought. I keep wandering into his room, expecting to see him there. And every time I realize he’s not, it just hits me all over again.'
I empathized, saying, 'That sounds really tough. It’s like you’re grieving.'
'It does feel like a sort of grief. I’m happy for him, really, I am. He’s starting his own life, which is wonderful, but I just didn’t expect to feel this loss so deeply,' he admitted.
'You've spent so many years caring for them, and suddenly, your daily life changes completely,' I noted.
'Yes, that’s exactly it. My whole identity was wrapped up in being a dad, and now, I’m not sure what my role is anymore. It's like I've lost a part of myself,' he reflected.
Beneath these “little deaths,” I recognized a common thread: each was marked by a deep attachment to something I was reluctant to lose. Sometimes this attachment was to people whose absence would leave a massive void in my life, like a girlfriend or an office buddy. Other times, it was connected to experiences, such as selling my childhood home or leaving a beloved company. These were moments I found difficult to release, as the pain seemed disproportionate to the reality of the situation. I often felt like curling up in a ball and crying, but instead, I might shed just a tear, worried that sharing the depth of my actual pain would be viewed as exaggerated.
I remember the moment I came closest to fully experiencing one of these “little deaths.” I was leaving Japan after living there for two years. In the days leading up to my departure, I found myself weeping daily. The weight of leaving behind a place that had become home, and people who had become family, was almost unbearable.
One evening, as my departure loomed ever closer, I sat down for one of my last dinners with my best friend, Hideki. The atmosphere was heavy with unspoken emotions. As we talked and reminisced about our time together, tears began to flow unexpectedly. At first, I tried to hold them back, but the dam broke, and I let the tears come.
Hideki, sitting across from me, didn't say a word. He didn't need to. Tears welled up in his eyes too, and soon we were both weeping, sharing a profound, unspoken understanding of the loss we were about to endure. At that moment, no words were necessary. The grief was tangible; it enveloped us, marking the end of a significant chapter in our lives.
Although it wasn't an actual death, the farewell carried the weight of finality. It marked the end of our chapter together. There was another example of such a loss, but in a very different context—the deterioration of the body.
In a recent conversation with a friend, he shared his struggles.
'I’ve been feeling really down lately. It’s like every day, there's something else I can't do anymore.'
'I'm sorry to hear that,' I replied. 'It must be tough to face those changes.'
'It's more than tough,' he continued. 'It feels like I’m losing parts of myself. Just last week, I realized I can no longer manage the stairs to my workshop. That was my sanctuary.'
'That sounds incredibly hard,' I responded. 'Losing access to something that meant so much to you... I can only imagine.'
'It’s like every bit of independence I lose, I mourn it. It’s not just the workshop. It’s the little things, like not being able to open jars or tie my shoes. I never thought those things would matter so much,' he explained.
'It’s understandable to feel that way,' I assured him. 'Each of those things represents a part of your life, a part of who you are.'
He nodded, 'Exactly. And with each thing I can no longer do, I have to say goodbye to that part of my life. It’s a series of losses, you know?'
In all of these discussions, one word has been mentioned a few times, but I want to take a moment to highlight its significance. Let's formally welcome 'identity' into our conversations. This word has come to hold profound meaning in my life because it encapsulates so many of my daily reflections. One question I often ask myself is, How is my way of seeing things so tied to my identity that I cannot even view it without bias? Can I ever truly know what that bias is?
When I apply this to the aspect of saying goodbye to parts of ourselves, I realize that the hardest things to let go of are those most strongly attached to my identity. And just to be clear, this identity is who I believe myself to be, either consciously or unconsciously. For instance, if I say, “I am a great partner,” it would be challenging for me to acknowledge that sometimes I am not a good partner because it is part of my identity.
No matter how many things I believe I've let go of, there always seems to be another aspect of my identity, another lingering attachment. For example, the pride I take in my career achievements, the sense of security from my financial stability, and even my self-image as a competent and reliable person are all deeply ingrained parts of who I am. Letting go of the notion that I must always succeed, or the idea that my worth is tied to my productivity, is incredibly challenging. And of course, there are identities that are core to who we are on the most fundamental of levels.
As I write this chapter, I am leaving Indonesia, where I visited my in-laws with my wife Rani. Although my own parents have passed away, Rani's parents are aging but still with us. Each farewell is laden with the heavy possibility that it might be the last, drawing deep tears from Rani as she confronts the painful reality that her parents will not always be part of her life. This impending loss is a significant part of her identity as a devoted daughter, a role with which she has not yet come to terms.
Throughout this process, I've noticed that the more Rani engages with the pain of her anticipated loss, the more loving and patient she becomes, both with herself and others. Conversely, when she distances herself from this pain, she tends to become easily agitated and frustrated, often saying things she later regrets.
Letting go is never easy, but as I often remind myself, avoiding it doesn't shield us from its consequences. Life presents a great paradox: by embracing pain, we open ourselves to joy. It is through accepting the pain of loss that we can truly appreciate and celebrate what we have now, no matter how ephemeral it may be.
Eckhart Tolle captures this beautifully with his words, “The secret of life is to ‘die before you die’ and find that there is no death.” These little deaths are my practice runs. By learning to navigate each one, I am gradually preparing myself for my own eventual end, potentially realizing that I have metaphorically died before my actual death.
MEDITATIVE QUESTIONS: “Little Deaths” Throughout Life
Experiencing “Little Deaths”: Reflect on a little death you have experienced, such as the end of a significant relationship or a major life transition. How did this experience affect you emotionally, and what did you learn from it?
Ambiguous Loss: How do you cope with feelings of ambiguous loss, where the source of pain is not easily identifiable or seems disproportionate to the situation? What strategies have you found helpful in managing these emotions?
Letting Go and Embracing Change: How do you handle the process of letting go, whetherit's saying goodbye to a beloved place, a cherished role, or a familiar routine? What can you do to navigate these transitions with greater acceptance and peace?
Navigating Anticipated Loss: Reflect on a current or anticipated loss in your life. How can you prepare yourself emotionally for this loss, and how might engaging with the pain of this loss help you become more loving and patient with yourself and others?
Extract formatted for this web zine(Chapter11) from Chaleff, A. 2025. Dying to Live. Finding Life’s Meaning Through Death (Spiritual Memoir). Meaningful Relations Consulting LLC
“Little Deaths” Throughout Life
There are times in life when you search for a term to describe an experience, but none exists. In my forties, I coined the term "little deaths" to capture such moments. These “little deaths” were filled with such profound emotional loss that they resembled the pain of death itself. It was perplexing because, despite the overwhelming sadness and pain, the source of these emotions was difficult to identify. The pain felt disproportionate to the situation. For that reason, I also came to refer to this feeling as “ambiguous loss.”
The first “little death” I remember was my high school graduation. High school was a formative time for me, it was where I built my social identity and experienced self-confidence for the first time. Saying farewell was deeply painful. Thoughts like 'I will never experience this again', 'This is an end', and 'These friends are gone forever' dominated my mind. The intensity of these thoughts evoked the same feelings I associate with death—a sense of helplessness and permanence.
When I reflect on all the little deaths over the course of my life, the list is extensive:the end of significant relationships, the loss of jobs, financial insecurity, deteriorating health, relocating homes, and, something many can relate to, selling the home I grew up in. A particularly poignant example for parents is when a child leaves home, leaving them feeling as if a critical part of their life is over.
In a recent conversation, a friend whose last child had just left home shared,
'Honestly, it's harder than I thought. I keep wandering into his room, expecting to see him there. And every time I realize he’s not, it just hits me all over again.'
I empathized, saying, 'That sounds really tough. It’s like you’re grieving.'
'It does feel like a sort of grief. I’m happy for him, really, I am. He’s starting his own life, which is wonderful, but I just didn’t expect to feel this loss so deeply,' he admitted.
'You've spent so many years caring for them, and suddenly, your daily life changes completely,' I noted.
'Yes, that’s exactly it. My whole identity was wrapped up in being a dad, and now, I’m not sure what my role is anymore. It's like I've lost a part of myself,' he reflected.
Beneath these “little deaths,” I recognized a common thread: each was marked by a deep attachment to something I was reluctant to lose. Sometimes this attachment was to people whose absence would leave a massive void in my life, like a girlfriend or an office buddy. Other times, it was connected to experiences, such as selling my childhood home or leaving a beloved company. These were moments I found difficult to release, as the pain seemed disproportionate to the reality of the situation. I often felt like curling up in a ball and crying, but instead, I might shed just a tear, worried that sharing the depth of my actual pain would be viewed as exaggerated.
I remember the moment I came closest to fully experiencing one of these “little deaths.” I was leaving Japan after living there for two years. In the days leading up to my departure, I found myself weeping daily. The weight of leaving behind a place that had become home, and people who had become family, was almost unbearable.
One evening, as my departure loomed ever closer, I sat down for one of my last dinners with my best friend, Hideki. The atmosphere was heavy with unspoken emotions. As we talked and reminisced about our time together, tears began to flow unexpectedly. At first, I tried to hold them back, but the dam broke, and I let the tears come.
Hideki, sitting across from me, didn't say a word. He didn't need to. Tears welled up in his eyes too, and soon we were both weeping, sharing a profound, unspoken understanding of the loss we were about to endure. At that moment, no words were necessary. The grief was tangible; it enveloped us, marking the end of a significant chapter in our lives.
Although it wasn't an actual death, the farewell carried the weight of finality. It marked the end of our chapter together. There was another example of such a loss, but in a very different context—the deterioration of the body.
In a recent conversation with a friend, he shared his struggles.
'I’ve been feeling really down lately. It’s like every day, there's something else I can't do anymore.'
'I'm sorry to hear that,' I replied. 'It must be tough to face those changes.'
'It's more than tough,' he continued. 'It feels like I’m losing parts of myself. Just last week, I realized I can no longer manage the stairs to my workshop. That was my sanctuary.'
'That sounds incredibly hard,' I responded. 'Losing access to something that meant so much to you... I can only imagine.'
'It’s like every bit of independence I lose, I mourn it. It’s not just the workshop. It’s the little things, like not being able to open jars or tie my shoes. I never thought those things would matter so much,' he explained.
'It’s understandable to feel that way,' I assured him. 'Each of those things represents a part of your life, a part of who you are.'
He nodded, 'Exactly. And with each thing I can no longer do, I have to say goodbye to that part of my life. It’s a series of losses, you know?'
In all of these discussions, one word has been mentioned a few times, but I want to take a moment to highlight its significance. Let's formally welcome 'identity' into our conversations. This word has come to hold profound meaning in my life because it encapsulates so many of my daily reflections. One question I often ask myself is, How is my way of seeing things so tied to my identity that I cannot even view it without bias? Can I ever truly know what that bias is?
When I apply this to the aspect of saying goodbye to parts of ourselves, I realize that the hardest things to let go of are those most strongly attached to my identity. And just to be clear, this identity is who I believe myself to be, either consciously or unconsciously. For instance, if I say, “I am a great partner,” it would be challenging for me to acknowledge that sometimes I am not a good partner because it is part of my identity.
No matter how many things I believe I've let go of, there always seems to be another aspect of my identity, another lingering attachment. For example, the pride I take in my career achievements, the sense of security from my financial stability, and even my self-image as a competent and reliable person are all deeply ingrained parts of who I am. Letting go of the notion that I must always succeed, or the idea that my worth is tied to my productivity, is incredibly challenging. And of course, there are identities that are core to who we are on the most fundamental of levels.
As I write this chapter, I am leaving Indonesia, where I visited my in-laws with my wife Rani. Although my own parents have passed away, Rani's parents are aging but still with us. Each farewell is laden with the heavy possibility that it might be the last, drawing deep tears from Rani as she confronts the painful reality that her parents will not always be part of her life. This impending loss is a significant part of her identity as a devoted daughter, a role with which she has not yet come to terms.
Throughout this process, I've noticed that the more Rani engages with the pain of her anticipated loss, the more loving and patient she becomes, both with herself and others. Conversely, when she distances herself from this pain, she tends to become easily agitated and frustrated, often saying things she later regrets.
Letting go is never easy, but as I often remind myself, avoiding it doesn't shield us from its consequences. Life presents a great paradox: by embracing pain, we open ourselves to joy. It is through accepting the pain of loss that we can truly appreciate and celebrate what we have now, no matter how ephemeral it may be.
Eckhart Tolle captures this beautifully with his words, “The secret of life is to ‘die before you die’ and find that there is no death.” These little deaths are my practice runs. By learning to navigate each one, I am gradually preparing myself for my own eventual end, potentially realizing that I have metaphorically died before my actual death.
MEDITATIVE QUESTIONS: “Little Deaths” Throughout Life
Experiencing “Little Deaths”: Reflect on a little death you have experienced, such as the end of a significant relationship or a major life transition. How did this experience affect you emotionally, and what did you learn from it?
Ambiguous Loss: How do you cope with feelings of ambiguous loss, where the source of pain is not easily identifiable or seems disproportionate to the situation? What strategies have you found helpful in managing these emotions?
Letting Go and Embracing Change: How do you handle the process of letting go, whetherit's saying goodbye to a beloved place, a cherished role, or a familiar routine? What can you do to navigate these transitions with greater acceptance and peace?
Navigating Anticipated Loss: Reflect on a current or anticipated loss in your life. How can you prepare yourself emotionally for this loss, and how might engaging with the pain of this loss help you become more loving and patient with yourself and others?
Extract formatted for this web zine(Chapter11) from Chaleff, A. 2025. Dying to Live. Finding Life’s Meaning Through Death (Spiritual Memoir). Meaningful Relations Consulting LLC
Andy Chaleff is an author, mentor, and speaker whose life and work are grounded in radical emotional honesty. His latest book, Dying to Live, is out now.
by Andy Chaleff
“Little Deaths” Throughout Life
There are times in life when you search for a term to describe an experience, but none exists. In my forties, I coined the term "little deaths" to capture such moments. These “little deaths” were filled with such profound emotional loss that they resembled the pain of death itself. It was perplexing because, despite the overwhelming sadness and pain, the source of these emotions was difficult to identify. The pain felt disproportionate to the situation. For that reason, I also came to refer to this feeling as “ambiguous loss.”
The first “little death” I remember was my high school graduation. High school was a formative time for me, it was where I built my social identity and experienced self-confidence for the first time. Saying farewell was deeply painful. Thoughts like 'I will never experience this again', 'This is an end', and 'These friends are gone forever' dominated my mind. The intensity of these thoughts evoked the same feelings I associate with death—a sense of helplessness and permanence.
When I reflect on all the little deaths over the course of my life, the list is extensive:the end of significant relationships, the loss of jobs, financial insecurity, deteriorating health, relocating homes, and, something many can relate to, selling the home I grew up in. A particularly poignant example for parents is when a child leaves home, leaving them feeling as if a critical part of their life is over.
In a recent conversation, a friend whose last child had just left home shared,
'Honestly, it's harder than I thought. I keep wandering into his room, expecting to see him there. And every time I realize he’s not, it just hits me all over again.'
I empathized, saying, 'That sounds really tough. It’s like you’re grieving.'
'It does feel like a sort of grief. I’m happy for him, really, I am. He’s starting his own life, which is wonderful, but I just didn’t expect to feel this loss so deeply,' he admitted.
'You've spent so many years caring for them, and suddenly, your daily life changes completely,' I noted.
'Yes, that’s exactly it. My whole identity was wrapped up in being a dad, and now, I’m not sure what my role is anymore. It's like I've lost a part of myself,' he reflected.
Beneath these “little deaths,” I recognized a common thread: each was marked by a deep attachment to something I was reluctant to lose. Sometimes this attachment was to people whose absence would leave a massive void in my life, like a girlfriend or an office buddy. Other times, it was connected to experiences, such as selling my childhood home or leaving a beloved company. These were moments I found difficult to release, as the pain seemed disproportionate to the reality of the situation. I often felt like curling up in a ball and crying, but instead, I might shed just a tear, worried that sharing the depth of my actual pain would be viewed as exaggerated.
I remember the moment I came closest to fully experiencing one of these “little deaths.” I was leaving Japan after living there for two years. In the days leading up to my departure, I found myself weeping daily. The weight of leaving behind a place that had become home, and people who had become family, was almost unbearable.
One evening, as my departure loomed ever closer, I sat down for one of my last dinners with my best friend, Hideki. The atmosphere was heavy with unspoken emotions. As we talked and reminisced about our time together, tears began to flow unexpectedly. At first, I tried to hold them back, but the dam broke, and I let the tears come.
Hideki, sitting across from me, didn't say a word. He didn't need to. Tears welled up in his eyes too, and soon we were both weeping, sharing a profound, unspoken understanding of the loss we were about to endure. At that moment, no words were necessary. The grief was tangible; it enveloped us, marking the end of a significant chapter in our lives.
Although it wasn't an actual death, the farewell carried the weight of finality. It marked the end of our chapter together. There was another example of such a loss, but in a very different context—the deterioration of the body.
In a recent conversation with a friend, he shared his struggles.
'I’ve been feeling really down lately. It’s like every day, there's something else I can't do anymore.'
'I'm sorry to hear that,' I replied. 'It must be tough to face those changes.'
'It's more than tough,' he continued. 'It feels like I’m losing parts of myself. Just last week, I realized I can no longer manage the stairs to my workshop. That was my sanctuary.'
'That sounds incredibly hard,' I responded. 'Losing access to something that meant so much to you... I can only imagine.'
'It’s like every bit of independence I lose, I mourn it. It’s not just the workshop. It’s the little things, like not being able to open jars or tie my shoes. I never thought those things would matter so much,' he explained.
'It’s understandable to feel that way,' I assured him. 'Each of those things represents a part of your life, a part of who you are.'
He nodded, 'Exactly. And with each thing I can no longer do, I have to say goodbye to that part of my life. It’s a series of losses, you know?'
In all of these discussions, one word has been mentioned a few times, but I want to take a moment to highlight its significance. Let's formally welcome 'identity' into our conversations. This word has come to hold profound meaning in my life because it encapsulates so many of my daily reflections. One question I often ask myself is, How is my way of seeing things so tied to my identity that I cannot even view it without bias? Can I ever truly know what that bias is?
When I apply this to the aspect of saying goodbye to parts of ourselves, I realize that the hardest things to let go of are those most strongly attached to my identity. And just to be clear, this identity is who I believe myself to be, either consciously or unconsciously. For instance, if I say, “I am a great partner,” it would be challenging for me to acknowledge that sometimes I am not a good partner because it is part of my identity.
No matter how many things I believe I've let go of, there always seems to be another aspect of my identity, another lingering attachment. For example, the pride I take in my career achievements, the sense of security from my financial stability, and even my self-image as a competent and reliable person are all deeply ingrained parts of who I am. Letting go of the notion that I must always succeed, or the idea that my worth is tied to my productivity, is incredibly challenging. And of course, there are identities that are core to who we are on the most fundamental of levels.
As I write this chapter, I am leaving Indonesia, where I visited my in-laws with my wife Rani. Although my own parents have passed away, Rani's parents are aging but still with us. Each farewell is laden with the heavy possibility that it might be the last, drawing deep tears from Rani as she confronts the painful reality that her parents will not always be part of her life. This impending loss is a significant part of her identity as a devoted daughter, a role with which she has not yet come to terms.
Throughout this process, I've noticed that the more Rani engages with the pain of her anticipated loss, the more loving and patient she becomes, both with herself and others. Conversely, when she distances herself from this pain, she tends to become easily agitated and frustrated, often saying things she later regrets.
Letting go is never easy, but as I often remind myself, avoiding it doesn't shield us from its consequences. Life presents a great paradox: by embracing pain, we open ourselves to joy. It is through accepting the pain of loss that we can truly appreciate and celebrate what we have now, no matter how ephemeral it may be.
Eckhart Tolle captures this beautifully with his words, “The secret of life is to ‘die before you die’ and find that there is no death.” These little deaths are my practice runs. By learning to navigate each one, I am gradually preparing myself for my own eventual end, potentially realizing that I have metaphorically died before my actual death.
MEDITATIVE QUESTIONS: “Little Deaths” Throughout Life
Experiencing “Little Deaths”: Reflect on a little death you have experienced, such as the end of a significant relationship or a major life transition. How did this experience affect you emotionally, and what did you learn from it?
Ambiguous Loss: How do you cope with feelings of ambiguous loss, where the source of pain is not easily identifiable or seems disproportionate to the situation? What strategies have you found helpful in managing these emotions?
Letting Go and Embracing Change: How do you handle the process of letting go, whetherit's saying goodbye to a beloved place, a cherished role, or a familiar routine? What can you do to navigate these transitions with greater acceptance and peace?
Navigating Anticipated Loss: Reflect on a current or anticipated loss in your life. How can you prepare yourself emotionally for this loss, and how might engaging with the pain of this loss help you become more loving and patient with yourself and others?
Extract formatted for this web zine(Chapter11) from Chaleff, A. 2025. Dying to Live. Finding Life’s Meaning Through Death (Spiritual Memoir). Meaningful Relations Consulting LLC
“Little Deaths” Throughout Life
There are times in life when you search for a term to describe an experience, but none exists. In my forties, I coined the term "little deaths" to capture such moments. These “little deaths” were filled with such profound emotional loss that they resembled the pain of death itself. It was perplexing because, despite the overwhelming sadness and pain, the source of these emotions was difficult to identify. The pain felt disproportionate to the situation. For that reason, I also came to refer to this feeling as “ambiguous loss.”
The first “little death” I remember was my high school graduation. High school was a formative time for me, it was where I built my social identity and experienced self-confidence for the first time. Saying farewell was deeply painful. Thoughts like 'I will never experience this again', 'This is an end', and 'These friends are gone forever' dominated my mind. The intensity of these thoughts evoked the same feelings I associate with death—a sense of helplessness and permanence.
When I reflect on all the little deaths over the course of my life, the list is extensive:the end of significant relationships, the loss of jobs, financial insecurity, deteriorating health, relocating homes, and, something many can relate to, selling the home I grew up in. A particularly poignant example for parents is when a child leaves home, leaving them feeling as if a critical part of their life is over.
In a recent conversation, a friend whose last child had just left home shared,
'Honestly, it's harder than I thought. I keep wandering into his room, expecting to see him there. And every time I realize he’s not, it just hits me all over again.'
I empathized, saying, 'That sounds really tough. It’s like you’re grieving.'
'It does feel like a sort of grief. I’m happy for him, really, I am. He’s starting his own life, which is wonderful, but I just didn’t expect to feel this loss so deeply,' he admitted.
'You've spent so many years caring for them, and suddenly, your daily life changes completely,' I noted.
'Yes, that’s exactly it. My whole identity was wrapped up in being a dad, and now, I’m not sure what my role is anymore. It's like I've lost a part of myself,' he reflected.
Beneath these “little deaths,” I recognized a common thread: each was marked by a deep attachment to something I was reluctant to lose. Sometimes this attachment was to people whose absence would leave a massive void in my life, like a girlfriend or an office buddy. Other times, it was connected to experiences, such as selling my childhood home or leaving a beloved company. These were moments I found difficult to release, as the pain seemed disproportionate to the reality of the situation. I often felt like curling up in a ball and crying, but instead, I might shed just a tear, worried that sharing the depth of my actual pain would be viewed as exaggerated.
I remember the moment I came closest to fully experiencing one of these “little deaths.” I was leaving Japan after living there for two years. In the days leading up to my departure, I found myself weeping daily. The weight of leaving behind a place that had become home, and people who had become family, was almost unbearable.
One evening, as my departure loomed ever closer, I sat down for one of my last dinners with my best friend, Hideki. The atmosphere was heavy with unspoken emotions. As we talked and reminisced about our time together, tears began to flow unexpectedly. At first, I tried to hold them back, but the dam broke, and I let the tears come.
Hideki, sitting across from me, didn't say a word. He didn't need to. Tears welled up in his eyes too, and soon we were both weeping, sharing a profound, unspoken understanding of the loss we were about to endure. At that moment, no words were necessary. The grief was tangible; it enveloped us, marking the end of a significant chapter in our lives.
Although it wasn't an actual death, the farewell carried the weight of finality. It marked the end of our chapter together. There was another example of such a loss, but in a very different context—the deterioration of the body.
In a recent conversation with a friend, he shared his struggles.
'I’ve been feeling really down lately. It’s like every day, there's something else I can't do anymore.'
'I'm sorry to hear that,' I replied. 'It must be tough to face those changes.'
'It's more than tough,' he continued. 'It feels like I’m losing parts of myself. Just last week, I realized I can no longer manage the stairs to my workshop. That was my sanctuary.'
'That sounds incredibly hard,' I responded. 'Losing access to something that meant so much to you... I can only imagine.'
'It’s like every bit of independence I lose, I mourn it. It’s not just the workshop. It’s the little things, like not being able to open jars or tie my shoes. I never thought those things would matter so much,' he explained.
'It’s understandable to feel that way,' I assured him. 'Each of those things represents a part of your life, a part of who you are.'
He nodded, 'Exactly. And with each thing I can no longer do, I have to say goodbye to that part of my life. It’s a series of losses, you know?'
In all of these discussions, one word has been mentioned a few times, but I want to take a moment to highlight its significance. Let's formally welcome 'identity' into our conversations. This word has come to hold profound meaning in my life because it encapsulates so many of my daily reflections. One question I often ask myself is, How is my way of seeing things so tied to my identity that I cannot even view it without bias? Can I ever truly know what that bias is?
When I apply this to the aspect of saying goodbye to parts of ourselves, I realize that the hardest things to let go of are those most strongly attached to my identity. And just to be clear, this identity is who I believe myself to be, either consciously or unconsciously. For instance, if I say, “I am a great partner,” it would be challenging for me to acknowledge that sometimes I am not a good partner because it is part of my identity.
No matter how many things I believe I've let go of, there always seems to be another aspect of my identity, another lingering attachment. For example, the pride I take in my career achievements, the sense of security from my financial stability, and even my self-image as a competent and reliable person are all deeply ingrained parts of who I am. Letting go of the notion that I must always succeed, or the idea that my worth is tied to my productivity, is incredibly challenging. And of course, there are identities that are core to who we are on the most fundamental of levels.
As I write this chapter, I am leaving Indonesia, where I visited my in-laws with my wife Rani. Although my own parents have passed away, Rani's parents are aging but still with us. Each farewell is laden with the heavy possibility that it might be the last, drawing deep tears from Rani as she confronts the painful reality that her parents will not always be part of her life. This impending loss is a significant part of her identity as a devoted daughter, a role with which she has not yet come to terms.
Throughout this process, I've noticed that the more Rani engages with the pain of her anticipated loss, the more loving and patient she becomes, both with herself and others. Conversely, when she distances herself from this pain, she tends to become easily agitated and frustrated, often saying things she later regrets.
Letting go is never easy, but as I often remind myself, avoiding it doesn't shield us from its consequences. Life presents a great paradox: by embracing pain, we open ourselves to joy. It is through accepting the pain of loss that we can truly appreciate and celebrate what we have now, no matter how ephemeral it may be.
Eckhart Tolle captures this beautifully with his words, “The secret of life is to ‘die before you die’ and find that there is no death.” These little deaths are my practice runs. By learning to navigate each one, I am gradually preparing myself for my own eventual end, potentially realizing that I have metaphorically died before my actual death.
MEDITATIVE QUESTIONS: “Little Deaths” Throughout Life
Experiencing “Little Deaths”: Reflect on a little death you have experienced, such as the end of a significant relationship or a major life transition. How did this experience affect you emotionally, and what did you learn from it?
Ambiguous Loss: How do you cope with feelings of ambiguous loss, where the source of pain is not easily identifiable or seems disproportionate to the situation? What strategies have you found helpful in managing these emotions?
Letting Go and Embracing Change: How do you handle the process of letting go, whetherit's saying goodbye to a beloved place, a cherished role, or a familiar routine? What can you do to navigate these transitions with greater acceptance and peace?
Navigating Anticipated Loss: Reflect on a current or anticipated loss in your life. How can you prepare yourself emotionally for this loss, and how might engaging with the pain of this loss help you become more loving and patient with yourself and others?
Extract formatted for this web zine(Chapter11) from Chaleff, A. 2025. Dying to Live. Finding Life’s Meaning Through Death (Spiritual Memoir). Meaningful Relations Consulting LLC
Andy Chaleff is an author, mentor, and speaker whose life and work are grounded in radical emotional honesty. His latest book, Dying to Live, is out now.