Learning How to Fall
In love, in strength, in relationship with life as it is
“The bad news is you’re falling through the air, nothing to hang on to, no parachute. The good news is, there's no ground.”
This quote is from the founder of the university where I attended my graduate studies. It’s one that’s quoted often, and a memorable one that’s stuck with me since I first encountered it. We’ll come back to it later!
A few weeks ago, I had the privilege of officiating a memorial service for a neighbor1 of mine (we’ll call him ‘Mark’) who I’d been working with. These kinds of opportunities are rare in the hospice field. We don’t explicitly offer to support families in this way (as much as I’d like to personally), and our service typically ends on the day of a person’s death.
Admittedly, I was surprised at first to receive his family’s invitation. I had only met them once before Mark’s passing. He had been battling glioblastoma, a rare and aggressive form of brain cancer, for about a year. My visit was at the very end of his life, and it was an incredibly challenging time for his family. Mark and I didn’t have the chance to speak personally, as his illness had rapidly progressed and left him sleeping most days. As I met with Mark’s wife and one of his children in his home, it was clear to me how painful this experience had been, and how difficult this loss would be.
To be completely honest, I wasn’t sure what they thought of me or how the visit went. There was a lot of pain in the room, and there were many questions that I could not answer. Sometimes, the temptation to say something that will paper over anguish is overwhelming. There is the small but persistent desire to push the uncomfortable away, to avoid sitting with what’s real and alive in the moment.
Especially when people are in the middle of their grief and turmoil, the urge to “fix” it and take it away from them can be powerful. Of course, that’s not my job; my work is to attune, to listen, and accompany suffering alongside people. Pretending to do or say something that offers false comfort would be a disservice both to a family and to myself. With Mark’s family, I could see the desire for answers, the yearning for things to be otherwise. I had to hold my nerve and avoid the temptation to change something I couldn’t, instead maintaining my care and attentiveness to the feelings alive in the room. I left their home ruminating a bit, but curious about what might unfold.
We had made plans for another visit that following week. Sadly, Mark passed away the day before I was scheduled to come back, the day before his birthday. I made my condolence calls as I always do, thinking that was the end of my encounter with his family. When they reached out about a month after his death, asking if I would be willing to help them plan his funeral, I was caught off guard. I wasn’t sure if anything I had said or done had served them, but I was honored to help. We spent the next few weeks on the phone and over email, crafting stories, ceremony, and reflections that would honor Mark’s life and the legacy of his time on Earth.
The day of his memorial came, and the chapel in which it was held quickly ran out of seating. As people gathered and the benches filled, I had a few quiet moments to sit by myself and observe. Family embraced, friends shook hands, and a community of people came together to mourn and comfort each other. Watching the scene unfold, I was suddenly struck by the enormity of the moment, as if I had snapped out of sleep. It occurred to me how many stories surrounded me: stories of friendship, family, success, struggle, joy, and loss. Decades of time and relationship with Mark were streaming into this room, like rivers flowing into the sea. I sat there like a single drop, in an ocean of human feeling and memory. What’s more, I was a stranger to all aside from Mark’s immediate family. In a few minutes, I would be standing up in front of them, speaking for someone who, in truth, was known least of all by me.
I found myself thinking: “What am I doing here? What’s happening right now?”. I wasn’t asking this out of doubt, or in fear of getting up to speak. It was a question of perspective, of sitting with where I was and what life had called me to do on this particular day. I spend a lot of time around the emotions I was witnessing-and yet, in this moment, something about them felt different. I was moved by seeing so many people come together to join in tender tribute, holding a sacred space for one another.
I think we live fairly isolated lives, not really aware or in touch with what’s happening in the shared worlds of one another. Generally speaking, we don’t get many chances to witness the care and concern that was on display in the chapel. On my harder days, sometimes I feel like we’re in a crisis of empathy, unable or unwilling to feel anything towards one another. Sitting there with Mark’s community, preparing for a time of connection among people I didn’t know (and who didn’t know me), was a surreal and powerful feeling.
Mark’s memorial was a celebration of life in every sense. I’ll remember every moment of it: the words shared by his children, the tears of those who loved him, the delight of hearing stories about the life he lived, the feeling of singing his favorite songs with hundreds of other people. It felt like a reminder of how important it is to honor what we lose, and what it means to do so alongside others. In turn, grieving didn’t just mean feeling sad. Laughter, gratitude, and generosity also had a seat at the table.
I spent some time at the reception afterwards making my rounds and sharing with Mark’s friends and family. Eventually, the moment came to say goodbye: I had another family to see that day, and it was time for life to go on. I said my farewells, and made my way out of the building. As I turned the corner and walked away down the street, I had the feeling of finality. My life had found this unexpected and incredible crossroads with Mark and his family, and now it had come to end. Bound by this shared experience, we went our separate ways, down our own paths.
I share this story because it reminded me of what can happen when things fall apart. For Mark’s community, a precious and beloved part of their world had come to an end. On that day, they said goodbye to a father, a brother, a husband, a friend. Life would not be quite the same again, and the sorrow of that parting was profound.
In those moments, when life is falling apart and we lose what we care about, it can seem like a future is impossible. Everything seems dark, and the warmth of life far away. In the uncertainty, we aren’t sure of how we will carry on, or if anything will arrive beyond more pain.
I wonder if we are all feeling that kind of loss right now, in one way or another. I think it is true to say that our shared life is in a sort of dying process: across our ecosystems, our societies, our political and economic realities. All of that is passing away, right in front of us. Every missile fired, every innocent death at the hands of the greedy and powerful, every back turned on those in need, is a witness and proof of that.
We’re also trying to fix things in ways we know we can’t, clinging to the past in fear that the future won’t exist without it. Our answers, at least right now, have no belief in things being different. Our response is to spend billions on new wars, to give even more to the wealthy, to solidify mistrust and ignore what’s right in front of us. These are things that we have always done when we know things are collapsing, changing, meeting the uncertain. The ground beneath us is not as solid as we believed it to be.
So here we are: falling through the air, nothing to hang on to, no parachute. It is unlikely that anyone is coming to catch us, that the way things are going will magically reverse themselves. What do we do?
What does it mean to say that there’s no ground?
What I have been realizing for myself lately is this: despite the terror and absurdity and unrelenting cruelty of this moment, I am not afraid of it. It pains me deeply, but it does not steal my hope or my purpose. As things fall apart, I find myself falling not into despair but deeper in love: with life, with people, with the world and everything in it. The more I see loss, the more I see how much the world matters. The deeper the loss, the more important it becomes to live out whatever light exists in my life. I don’t want to shut down, or turn away; I want to open up, bending towards everything and everyone.
If I am falling, but I’m not in danger of striking the ground, then I have a chance to steady myself in space, get my bearings, and look around. What can I see if I’m willing to face reality, to look at things beyond the view of my preferences, my fears, my insecurities?
These days, I see a horizon of belonging. I see the possibility of healing, growth, and transformation in every person I encounter. Every bedside I sit with has started to feel like a family member’s. Every shared laugh feels like a blessing, every sorrow an invitation to open up and soften. It’s not an experience of taking on the world as if I have to carry it myself: it’s the practice of relationship, of living in the constant reminder that I am not separate. I’m learning how to fall deeper into life, not outside of it.
The more I practice, the more I want to be a part of it. I’m learning (or even re-learning) the courage and insight that comes from embracing the experience of falling itself. Relaxing into it, I watch my fear begin to ebb away. I can show up to life and care with honesty, instead of desperately avoiding what already is.
Cutting ourselves off from the hardship and difficulty of reality will not save us. It only increases our isolation, blocks our resolve, prevents us from recognizing that this is something that we are all going through. To pretend otherwise may offer temporary relief, but only delays the inevitable. As it was often quoted in my days as a psychology student: “what we resist, persists”. Imagining that we can exist outside of life instead of within it, we live in perpetual fear of falling, of ground giving way and plummeting to our deaths.
Rather than tumble wildly through the air, out of control without knowing where I am or what’s happening, I want to practice falling gracefully, courageously, without apology or fear of the unknown. I want to fall upwards into hope, and deeper into what truly matters to me. I want to embrace the space of my own movement, using the energy of my life to share, bear witness, and embrace the change that affects us all.
Despite my learning, I still wish things weren’t this way. More than anything else, I want a life for our planet that is not in constant chaos, driven by the obscene hunger for war, profit, and making people suffer. I grieve the unfathomable loss taking place: not only the lives lost in this moment, but also the loss of what could have been, and what we will continue to lose on this path of death and destruction.
Nevertheless, I accept that this is where we are. Things are falling apart, and perhaps they always have been. Maybe the difference is in visibility: we can no longer hide how clear our collapse is, how necessary it is to seek change, the importance of taking responsibility for our future. It’s not the end of the world: a future does exist, but its shape depends on our ability to embrace our present.
When things fall apart, it does not signal our inevitable end. There is loss, there is grief, there is the pain of letting go, but there is also more than that. As I found in my encounter with Mark’s family, that something is just as real as the unraveling, unexpected and deeply healing. Even as we fall, we can still find each other. What emerges from those connections is both priceless and beloved.
We are all falling together. We can plunge screaming, alone, disoriented and bracing for an impact that will never come. Or, we can find each other in space and embrace one another, reaching towards the honesty of who we are and the vast potential of who we can be.
I’ve been trying out the word “neighbor” to describe the people I work with in hospice rather than “patient”. ‘Patient’ is a term that carries some clinical distance in my experience, and ‘neighbor’ has felt more relational and humanistic.