Tiny Endings

The surprisingly powerful practice of noticing impermanence.

When was the last time you felt truly bored or caught yourself simply daydreaming? Chances are, it’s been a while. For many of us, these simple moments of stillness feel like relics of the past. Every free moment we once had—those pauses to simply be—is now filled with a scroll, a tap, or a notification lighting up our screens.

But what happens when we reclaim some of that stillness?

Over the holidays, I gave myself the gift of a social media detox. Not a full digital detox—my email and laptop were still in the mix, thanks to wedding planning and a new product I’m working on for Hello, Mortal. But for two weeks, I deleted the apps and stepped away from the constant scroll.

Without social media pulling me into an endless rabbit hole of distraction (my algorithm is a chaotic mix of wedding dresses, alien conspiracy theories, and DIY home makeovers), my attention shifted. Within days, I found that I was more present–with my family, my body, and the world around me.

On my daily walks through Cape Cod’s still Winter landscape (it’s like a scene from The Mists of Avalon), I started seeing the world with a sharper focus: the quiet decay of winter, driftwood and crab skeletons scattered on the beach, frozen animal tracks in the mud, and the remnants of coyote droppings on the ground. At first, I chuckled at myself—what a morbid collection of curiosities! But the more I looked, the more I realized that it wasn’t morbid at all. I was grounding myself in the present moment by noticing all the tiny endings around me.

It felt like waking up from a long, restless dream—a reminder that clarity doesn’t come from doing more, but from stepping back and doing less. And it’s something I want to make a regular ritual. A quarterly digital detox feels like a tangible way to reconnect with what matters most, even amidst the demands of using social media for work—so I don’t lose sight of what’s right in front of me.

The practice of noticing impermanence

The most powerful, and perhaps surprising, byproduct of my social media detox was this sharpened awareness of impermanence.

This mindfulness of death—what Buddhists call maranasati—is about noticing endings everywhere. The fallen leaves on the ground, the peeling skin on your face, even the low battery on your phone. Did you know that billions of your cells die and regenerate every single day? Death isn’t just something that happens at the end of life; it’s part of the everyday, ongoing cycle that keeps you alive.

Paying attention to these small deaths brought me an unexpected sense of calm. It reminded me that, unlike the photos we post on Instagram, life isn’t static. It’s constantly in motion, constantly renewing.

And at the same time, death has been far from subtle lately, and all over social media. The wildfires in LA are a stark and painful reminder that life can be taken away in an instant. (I wonder, can the Earth feel itself dying?). Homes reduced to ash. Lives uprooted. A community changed forever. Families fleeing, leaving behind photos, books, and heirlooms—things that held decades of memories. Even the last quiet evening on a couch they didn’t know they’d never return to.

All of this was simmering in my awareness last weekend when something unexpected happened. I had spent a lovely weekend at a bachelorette party with close friends, including several hours at a ceramics studio painting pieces that we were excited to take home. Two days later, I got a text: the kiln had exploded, and everything was destroyed. The studio owner was shocked, and told us this hadn’t happened in 15 years! No one was hurt, thankfully, but all our creations were completely gone—melted beyond repair.

When I got the news, I started laughing—not out of indifference, but because of the cosmic timing. Some endings are quiet and humble, others are a literal explosion. The exploding kiln felt like the universe was driving home the same lesson: things are fleeting. Attachments are tricky. Stuff is just…stuff. These moments remind me not to hold on too tightly. Whether it’s a painted mug or something much bigger, what really lasts are the memories, the laughter, and the people we share these moments with.

The next time could be the last time

Contemplating mortality reminds us that we have no way of knowing how much time we have. Sure, the average human lifespan is about 4,000 weeks, but no one is entitled to a long and happy life. Tomorrow isn’t promised. The future you dream about is just a point on the horizon that may never arrive.

The next time you do anything could be the last.

That’s why I love a meditation from Sam Harris called “The Last Time.” Here’s an excerpt:

“Take a moment to think about all the things in this life that you will experience for the last time… Long before you die, you will cease to have certain experiences—experiences you surely take for granted now.

When was the last time you swam in the ocean? Tucked your child in at night? Took a walk just to take a walk?

Every moment represents a finite opportunity to savor your life. If it doesn’t feel that way, paying closer attention can make it so. Attention is your true source of wealth—more precious than time itself.”

This practice—of noticing, of paying attention to what is dying right now—always hits me like a ton of bricks. It’s easy to rush through life, consumed by our endless to-do lists, always striving for what’s next. But what if we slowed down and stopped fixating on the next thing? What if we treated every hug, every walk, every night on the couch, every seemingly ordinary moment, as if it might be the last?

If this resonates, here’s my invitation to you:

• Take a walk, without your phone, and notice what’s dying around you.

• Reflect on the things you’ve already done for the last time—whether you realized it or not.

• Write down a memory you cherish, so it’s not lost to time

If this practice brings you clarity, share it. Send it to someone who might need it. And drop a comment—I’d love to hear what this brought up for you.

– Maura