Why do we abandon so many things along the way?

A book left at page 47, a course never finished, a resolution forgotten: could these abandonments share the same root as an unclosed tube of toothpaste? This piece explores what the unfinished leaves behind in us, and why completing our actions, even the smallest ones, can be a form of happiness.

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A book left at page 47, a course never finished, a resolution forgotten: could these abandonments share the same root as an unclosed tube of toothpaste? This piece explores what the unfinished leaves behind in us, and why completing our actions, even the smallest ones, can be a form of happiness.

A book left at page 47 for six months, an online course followed enthusiastically for three modules and then dropped, a New Year's resolution abandoned along the way: all of this means something.

There are also quieter abandonments: the toothpaste tube left unclosed after brushing one's teeth, the jam jar left open after use, the light left on when leaving a room, even though one was the last to go. These too mean something, and can have unsuspected effects on our mind.

When we abandon a book or a course, several reasons blend together and blur the picture: tiredness, lack of time, disappointment, the fear of not being up to the task. We can always tell ourselves a respectable version of events.

But faced with a jam jar lid, none of these excuses really hold. The gesture requires no effort and no time; nothing is at stake, nothing needs proving. And yet it remains unfinished.

It then becomes hard to explain everything through tiredness or lack of time. Something in us seems to stop just short of the end, even when nothing justifies that stop.

What the unfinished leaves behind

An unfinished action, whatever its importance, leaves something suspended in us, like a door left unclosed. Whatever in us loves order and coherence is quietly disturbed by this. It leaves a trace, most often unconscious, something like a feeling of insecurity.

Taken alone, this trace weighs almost nothing. But these residues accumulate. The unclosed tube joins the abandoned book, which joins the interrupted course, which joins the forgotten resolution.

This accumulation keeps us from truly moving forward, from turning to what comes next with a clear mind. We no longer know the simple satisfaction of work carried through to its end. In its place settles a diffuse confusion, attached to nothing in particular, yet feeding a quiet sense of frustration.

The reverse is equally true. When we make a habit of finishing our actions, closing the toothpaste tube, switching off the light when leaving a room, or cleaning the sink after doing the dishes, we enter a dynamic of coherence.

It is a little as though, by putting our home in order, we were also putting our mind in order. The confusion eases slightly, and things become clearer.

Sweeping the floor, hanging clothes on a hanger instead of leaving them on a chair, putting things back in their place: all these gestures restore something in us too. A clearer, more ordered mind helps us live better each day.

This touches on something essential to living happily: the capacity to be fully available to the present moment. An action left unfinished holds us back without our realising it. Part of our attention stays attached to what was never carried through, keeping us from being fully present where we are.

Finishing our actions, by contrast, closes the loop and frees the mind for what comes next. It is a modest discipline, but one that quietly retrains a distracted attention.

Beginning belongs to imagination,

ending belongs to reality

Beginning is relatively easy, because a beginning still largely belongs to imagination. Opening a book means already picturing what it will bring us. Enrolling in a course means already seeing ourselves more capable. Making coffee means already anticipating the moment we will sit down to drink it.

Cleaning up what we dirtied while preparing it, putting the lid back, closing the tube, switching off the light: these gestures add nothing to the imagination. They simply confirm that the thing is finished.

Yet part of us prefers, without quite admitting it, that things stay a little open. The book left at page 47 keeps its promise fully intact, as long as it hasn't been closed on an ending that might disappoint.

What incompleteness protects

As long as a project remains unfinished, we can tell ourselves we would have succeeded had we truly carried it through. The book never finished keeps its mystery. The interrupted course never forces us to measure what we actually retained from it. Finishing, by contrast, exposes us to reality. What we made may be imperfect, more modest than expected, less impressive than hoped.

Incompleteness thus protects imagined possibilities. It allows us to keep a beautiful promise rather than face an actual result, with its qualities and its limits. The toothpaste tube, of course, has no promise to protect. And yet the small abandoned gesture shares something with the large unfinished project: in both cases, attention withdraws before the action has reached its true conclusion.

The middle, a land without reward

In longer projects, what is missing most is neither the courage of the start nor the satisfaction of the end. It is the ability to hold the middle, that stretch where novelty has faded and the outcome is not yet in sight. We have left the shore without yet glimpsing the other side. This is where most abandonments happen, not because we no longer wish to reach the goal, but because we are waiting, in order to continue, to recover the momentum of the first day.

That momentum, however, rarely returns in the same form. To go further, we must accept that the enthusiasm of the beginning be replaced by something less spectacular, but sturdier: habit, patience, and the decision to keep going.

Finishing begins with doing less

Every commitment, large or small, claims a share of our attention. It is better to read one book to the end than to start ten. It is better to follow a course with regularity than to multiply enrolments. It is better to have a modest commitment kept than an ambitious project abandoned at the first sign of fatigue. The same holds true for the smallest gestures.

Closing a tube, putting back a lid, switching off a light ask almost nothing of us. That is precisely why they make good training ground. If we cannot finish what costs us nothing, it becomes hard to be surprised at not finishing what asks more time, effort, or perseverance.

Doing less does not mean shrinking our life or lacking ambition. It means choosing more clearly what we begin, so as to give it a real chance of reaching its end.

Going all the way, one thing at a time

Finishing what we begin is therefore not merely a matter of organisation or discipline. It is a practice that applies as much to a major project as to an almost insignificant gesture, such as closing the tube, sealing the jam jar, switching off the light on the way out, and tidying what has been left lying around.

Then, page after page, session after session, going through to the end of the rest, the mind a little clearer each time. Satisfaction does not come only from great achievements. It also arises from this quiet coherence between what we begin, what we do, and what we finish.

It is a simple form of happiness: not leaving behind a multitude of half-open gestures, decisions, and projects, but learning to gently close each door before opening another.

madhyama.marga@gmail.com