October mantra: Every ending is a beginning.

Death has always fascinated me. Scared me. Intrigued me. Perhaps because it forces me to look at myself, my human mortality, my impermanence. What will happen when I’m gone? Will my life have mattered? How will my kids do without me? My husband; will he be ok? My friends, will they remember me fondly? These questions once felt like endings, but lately, I see them more as invitations to reflect on the exchange between life and death, giving and receiving, holding on and letting go.

As many of you know, my father passed away this year.  His death, in my opinion, was miraculous and beautiful. In his final moments, he gave me some of the greatest gifts, ones I will cherish forever. Did he know he was dying? My mom doesn’t think so, and that’s something I grieve in itself. If he had known, we could have talked openly, like we did about so many other things about how it was feeling for him. Was he ready to let go of the body that was no longer serving him?  Maybe, just maybe, he knew in his own way. His journey from life to the great mystery was unfolding exactly as it needed to.

This brings me to my friend Dawn. One of my oldest and dearest friends. My first roommate after leaving my parents’ home, my maid of honour, and I hers. We’ve weathered weddings, divorces, the birth of five children, my cancer diagnosis, treatment, and recovery. And now, her final walk home. Or maybe not final, perhaps the beginning of something new.
If you have the privilege of walking alongside a friend like Dawn, one who is facing death with open eyes and an open heart, consider yourself incredibly lucky. I am learning so much from her! Every piece of advice she gives comes from a deep, undeniable knowing, wisdom that those of us who feel invincible cannot fully grasp.
A while ago, she shared something profound with me. As a death doula, I sit with death often. I thought I had made peace with it. She asked me after dinner one evening, “Are you ready to die?” Without hesitation, I responded, “Of course not! I still have so much to do, see, and experience.”
She looked at me and said, “I think you need to get to a place of accepting and being okay with your own death.”
Mic drop. How is she so wise?  The holy grail of peace is through acceptance.
If I die tomorrow, could I say I am complete?
At that moment, I understood something I hadn’t before. Acceptance doesn’t mean giving up. It means knowing that, even in its imperfection, my life is already whole. My heart is pure. My soul is light. And that, in itself, is enough. Complete peace comes not from clinging to life but from knowing that it is beautiful and whole, even as it constantly transforms. Every day we live, is a preparation for our own death. We cannot have one without the other.

This is the season of fall—a time of reciprocity and change. The trees release their leaves not in despair, but as an offering, a return of nourishment to the earth that has sustained them. In letting go, they give back. In giving back, they prepare the soil for what is to come. Death, too, is part of this exchange, a surrender that feeds new life in ways we may never fully see. The gifts of the dying can be beautiful and brilliant, they teach us what it is to be human.

Fall invites us to mirror this wisdom in our own lives. In yoga, we practice Aparigraha, the Yama of non-attachment, learning to release what no longer serves us. Just as the trees let go of their leaves, we can let go of old stories, fears, and unfinished business. Through breath and movement, we create space within ourselves for renewal, for clarity, for the quiet knowing that life and death are part of the same great rhythm.

And perhaps the deepest preparation for death is not in thinking about it at all, but in living fully each day. To love big. To laugh loud. To pause long enough to notice the small miracles, he way the light filters through golden leaves, the warmth of tea in your hands, the sound of children’s laughter, the steady rhythm of your own breath. Living this way, death becomes less a shadow to fear and more a natural part of life’s exchange.

So, as the season shifts and we watch the natural world offer its leaves, fruits, and harvest back to the earth, I sit with this truth: Death is not just an end. It is an act of reciprocity. A returning, a giving back. A change of season that carries us into what we cannot yet understand. And in that, I find peace.

Written by Nicole Whitman