You Don’t Need Closure, You Need Space
Our culture is obsessed with “closure.” People want a neat bow tied around messy endings: the final conversation, the goodbye ritual, the explanation that makes it all make sense. Closure is sold to us like it’s a finish line you can sprint across, complete with balloons, confetti, and a medal that says Congratulations, you’re over it now!
But here’s the hard truth: closure is mostly a myth. What you actually need is space.
Closure is a Door Slam. Space is a Window Opening.
Closure implies finality. If you just do this one more thing or have that one more conversation, or understand that one more reason, you’ll feel all resolved and ready to go about life. But grief doesn’t work like that. Life doesn’t work like that. We rarely get tidy explanations for the messes that rearrange our hearts.
Think about the times you’ve lost someone you love, whether through death, estrangement, or just the slow drifting apart that life sometimes demands. Did closure ever arrive in a perfect package? Did it erase the ache? Or did it leave you frustrated that the story still felt unfinished?
Space, on the other hand, is expansive. It’s permission. It’s not about shutting a door but about giving your heart room to breathe inside the new reality. You don’t have to understand it all, you just have to make room for what is.
Why Closure Keeps Us Stuck
The hunt for closure often backfires. It can trap us in loops of questions with no satisfying answers: Why did this happen? What could I have done differently? What would they say if I could ask them one more thing?
Those are pretty normal questions, but if we believe that “closure” is waiting for us at the end of them, we’re signing up for disappointment. Closure demands we fix something that was never meant to be fixed. Space, instead, allows the wound to heal without demanding it vanish.
What Does Space Look Like, Then?
So what does it mean to give yourself space instead of chasing closure?
Time without pressure. Space is stepping back from the urgency to “feel better” or move on. It’s acknowledging that grief operates on its own schedule, not one you can pencil into your planner. (Yes I still use a paper planner, I’m that old)
Physical and emotional breathing room. Space might mean setting boundaries with people who keep telling you how you should be doing. (“Have you tried going for a walk?” “Maybe you just need to forgive and forget.”) Sometimes space looks like muting them on social media or skipping the family gathering.
Letting the story be incomplete. Maybe you never got the apology you deserved. Maybe you didn’t get to say goodbye. Maybe you don’t know why it ended the way it did. Space means living with that gap and not forcing yourself to stitch it closed with false explanations.
Expanding into new meaning. Space is what allows you to carry your loss with you, not as a heavy burden, but as something woven into your story. You don’t “get over” it, you grow around it.
Closure is a Trap. Space is Freedom.
The reason closure feels so alluring is because it promises certainty. We want the pain to have an end point. But certainty is a flimsy thing; it doesn’t exist in relationships, in grief, in love, in loss. What does exist is capacity. Our human ability to expand, to make space inside ourselves for what hurts and what heals.
You don’t need closure. You don’t need the bow tied, the door slammed, the “thank you for playing” end credits. You need space to be in process, to let grief stretch out on the couch next to you without demanding it leave. You need space to evolve, to carry your loss without having it define your entire existence.
Making Space in Real Life
If you’re wondering where to begin, here are some good places to start:
When you feel that urge for closure rising up (“If only I had answers, I’d feel better”), pause. Name it for what it is: the longing for certainty.
Ask yourself instead: What space do I need right now? Maybe it’s a quiet afternoon with no obligations. Maybe it’s a messy journal entry. Maybe it’s telling a trusted friend that you don’t need advice, just listening.
Remember: space is an ongoing practice, not a one-time fix.
Closure is a locked room. Space is a field. Which sounds like a better place to heal?
