Pursuing Veritas

In some strange ways, early 2026 has felt like a season of endings. Really, over the past year or so, I’ve had several stories that have reached their conclusions. Shows that ran for years. Franchises that shaped us. Cultural touchstones that once omnipresent finished.

And endings are hard.

Not just because we hate to say goodbye, but also because we love stories. And as I’ve written before, I believe that’s because we are story-shaped creatures. We want beginnings that spark hope, middles that test it, and endings that make it all mean something.

And as I’ve thought about some of these endings that I’ve experienced, I’ve come to realize that—in order for something to be a truly great story—a story can’t just stop. It has to stick the landing.

The Dissatisfaction of “The End”

There’s always a kind of ache when a good story ends. Even a satisfying ending carries loss, because you’re leaving a world you cared about. Characters you lived with. Conflicts you invested in.

And as much as it pains me, I’ve learned that this kind dissatisfaction is actually a sign that the story mattered.

But a great story does something more. It resolves the tension it created. Not necessarily by answering every question or tying every loose thread into a neat bow, but by bringing the journey to a meaningful conclusion. You may still wonder what happens next, but you don’t feel cheated. You feel full. You might still be sad the story is over. But that feeling is accompanied by the fullness of what was.

In other words, the best endings bring closure.

When the Landing Works

Consider It’s a Wonderful Life. (Full disclosure: our Christmas season watch of the classic is what led to all this.) On paper, it’s a bleak premise: a man crushed by disappointment, convinced his life has been a failure, stands on a bridge contemplating suicide. It echoes the quiet despair many people carry.

But the ending transforms everything.

George Bailey doesn’t become rich. His problems don’t magically disappear. Bedford Falls doesn’t suddenly become perfect. Instead, the story reveals the hidden truth of his life: he is loved, needed, and not alone. The community he quietly sustained now sustains him. It’s not a fairy-tale ending, it’s something better: a meaningful ending.

You walk away not with every problem solved, but with your heart steadied.

When the Landing Falters

Of course, not every story manages this. Some long-running series build enormous emotional investment but struggle to bring it home. When the conclusion feels rushed, confusing, or disconnected from what came before, viewers are left with a sense of narrative vertigo. (I’m looking at you, Stranger Things.)

And to be clear: it’s not that everything has to be happy. It just has to feel true. If the ending betrays the story’s own logic — if characters suddenly act unlike themselves, or themes are abandoned rather than fulfilled — the tension doesn’t resolve. It breaks.

And that’s deeply unsatisfying, because great stories train us to expect meaning.

When the Ending Is Both Sad and Right

Then there are stories like The Last Battle, the final book in C. S. Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia series. We finished reading the Narniad with my two oldest in the past several months. And I was again reminded that this is (at least arguably) the saddest of the series. Beloved characters die. Narnia itself ends. The world literally collapses. And yet, unlike so many other stories, The Last Battle also feels complete.

Lewis doesn’t pretend that loss isn’t painful. But he reframes it. What looks like the end turns out to be the doorway into something deeper, richer, and more real. The grief remains, but it’s shot through with hope. It’s an ending that hurts; and yet it heals at the same time. This, I think, is the most powerful kind of conclusion.

Why Endings Matter So Much

Which leads to yet another thought: the best endings reveal what a story has really been about. Was this a cute little story, or was there something truly meaningful behind all of this? A weak ending exposes a hollow center. A strong ending illuminates the meaning that was there all along.

Perhaps this is why even fictional endings can feel so personal: they mirror our own fear that life itself might end without resolution. We want the stories we hear to make sense, because we want our lives to make sense. We need to believe that the struggles mean something, that the losses are not wasted, that the threads of our days are being woven into a coherent whole.

In short, we want a story that sticks the landing.

The Deeper Hope

We long for the assurance that the final chapter—all final chapters—are not meaningless. We want to believe that goodness matters, that love outlasts suffering, that community can carry us when we cannot carry ourselves, and that even the saddest endings might open into something unexpectedly beautiful.

In other words, we don’t just want a good ending for our favorite shows or books. We want one for the world. For ourselves. For our kids. And that longing may be the clearest sign that we were made not just to hear great stories, butt to live inside one.