The Sun would be setting soon. Hurriedly, I tied the loose ends of my assignment. It had been a hectic day. The air was dry and still. I stood by the window -- my favourite time and place, watching the sun descend. Every sunset was unique: God’s poetry and art in the hues no other can match. At first, it was ordinary—the familiar gold spreading across the sky. There were no clouds to distract, the sky clear and still. There was a hush, as there always is at this time of the day; as if the Earth too needed this break.

As I gazed spellbound to the glowing spectacle something shifted.

The clouds, scattered and hushed, seemed to mirror something inside me—a vastness, a tenderness. The sky opened like a heart unclenching. And in that opening, I felt it: the surge of something unnameable.

Tears welled up, not out of sadness or longing, but gratitude. Pure and simple. Not the kind we say aloud at dinner tables or jot down in journals. This was the kind that lives in the bones. Gratitude for breath. For warmth. For eyes that could witness such beauty. For being here at all.

In that quiet moment, it struck me how much I had been given without asking. The people who walked into my life when I needed them most. The strength that showed up on days I thought I had none. The way life had a curious way of giving, even when it looked like it was taking.

And then, as the final sliver of sun dipped below the horizon, another thought arrived: One day, I too will disappear like this. Not in a dramatic ending, not in fear or resistance, but gently. Moving on. A soft return.

It wasn’t a morbid thought. It felt… natural. Like the tide withdrawing from the shore, like a sigh at the end of a long day. Something within me relaxed at the idea. Perhaps the soul knows something the mind forgets—that endings aren’t truly endings. They are just passages.

The sun, the sky, the shifting light—each mirrored the inevitable cycle of life itself. Life is made up of countless sunrises and sunsets, each marking the beginning and end of moments, of stages, of seasons. We are all part of this unbroken rhythm. We, too, have our dawns and dusks. The beginning of dreams and the letting go of those that no longer serve. The arrival of new people and the departure of others. There is always movement, always change.

I was reminded of a childhood evening, long ago. I was about eight, sitting on the back steps of my grandparents’ home, watching the sky change colors with my grandfather. He told me then, “The sun never dies, it just goes where we can’t see it.” I didn’t quite understand it then. But now, those words feel etched into my cells.

We don’t really lose light. It just shifts form.

We don’t really lose moments. They become part of us.

We don’t really disappear. We return.

In that moment, I realized: the sunset wasn’t outside me. It was within.

A part of me sets each day, letting go of expectations, of stories, of identities that no longer fit. And a part of me rises again—more open, more present, more real. Life is always doing both. And maybe the real art of living is allowing that rise and fall without holding on too tightly.

Life has a way of taking us to places we never imagined. We grow and stretch beyond the versions of ourselves we once knew. We become someone we did not expect to be, and sometimes, we lose pieces along the way. But there is beauty in all of it—the growing, the breaking, the healing. Life is the sum of all the moments, large and small, and like the setting sun, it always moves forward.

It’s not always easy. There were times I resisted this truth. Times I clung to what I knew, afraid of what might come if I surrendered. I’ve had seasons where everything I believed about myself crumbled. Where relationships ended, roles shifted, and I no longer recognized the reflection in the mirror.

In those moments, it felt like the sun would never rise again. But it always did. Not always brightly—but steadily, assuredly. With a kind of quiet confidence that only time can teach.

I’ve come to see that the most beautiful moments are often the most fleeting. And yet, their imprint lasts forever. Like the face of someone you love. Like the sound of laughter echoing down an empty hallway. Like the glow of the sun just before it vanishes. These things stay, even when they’re gone.

The sunset showed me that presence doesn’t need permanence.

That beauty doesn’t need to last forever to matter.

That light, once received, can live on inside us.

There’s a grace in impermanence. In the realization that nothing is meant to stay the same forever. If we could hold on to everything, would we still see the beauty of a fleeting moment? Could we fully appreciate the changing seasons if we never let go of one? Life asks us to surrender. To let things move, to evolve, and to trust that every shift is part of a larger unfolding.

And so, I live now with more reverence. Not for grand occasions or milestones, but for the in-between moments. The pauses. The quiet arrivals. The slow dissolves.

I’ve learned to meet each day with softer hands. To say thank you without needing a reason. To let go without needing a replacement. To feel deeply without explaining it away.

There is something sacred about endings. They ask us to pay attention. To stop rushing. To breathe. A sunset does not compete with the day—it completes it. It does not try to outshine the morning. It simply honors its time.

The sunset, in all its wordless wisdom, became a teacher. Not by instructing, but by showing. Not by shining, but by disappearing.

We spend so much time chasing the light, trying to hold it, trying to make it last. But some of the most luminous moments come when we simply witness. When we allow the golden silence to speak for itself.

Maybe this is what grace looks like—not something granted from above, but something quietly kindled from within. A willingness to be here. Fully. Without resistance.

And so I return to that evening often, not in memory, but in spirit. That sense of humility, of awe, of being a small part of something vast and benevolent. It lives in me now. A quiet knowing. A hush between heartbeats.

There is a sunset within all of us. A place that knows how to release, how to bow, how to return to the unseen. It doesn’t mark the end. It marks a homecoming.

If you ever find yourself standing before a sunset, let it speak to you. Let it remind you that even as light fades, love remains. That even as one chapter closes, the story continues.

And that somewhere deep within your chest, the sun keeps rising, and setting, carrying you gently toward the next unfolding.

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