I was a fan of 'Six Feet Under' and was very sad when it ended

Denis O’Hare once confessed with candor and warmth: “I was a fan of 'Six Feet Under' and was very sad when it ended, so I was not ready to switch my allegiance to another show. So I was like, 'I'm not watching this 'True Blood.' Then a friend got a bootleg copy of the first four episodes, and by the third one, I was irrevocably hooked.” Though these words speak of television and entertainment, within them lies a timeless reflection on attachment, resistance, and renewal—on the human heart’s struggle to let go of what it loves and its surprising capacity to love again.

When O’Hare mourned the end of Six Feet Under, he was grieving more than the loss of a show; he was mourning the end of an era in his own emotional landscape. For every story that captivates us becomes a mirror to our souls. We live through its characters, ache through its sorrows, triumph through its hope. When it ends, something within us closes too. The sadness he describes is not trivial—it is the universal ache of endings, the reluctance to open our hearts again for fear that the next journey will not touch us the same way. Yet, as his story reveals, love and wonder are not finite. When the heart dares once more to engage, it discovers new enchantment waiting beyond the horizon.

The ancients would have recognized this truth well. When Homer sang of Odysseus returning from his long voyage, he taught that the soul must constantly wander between loss and rediscovery. To cling forever to Ithaca, or to one story, is to refuse the voyage of life itself. The allegiance that O’Hare speaks of—his unwillingness to turn from one beloved tale to another—is a symbol of our own hesitations in life: our fear of moving on after endings, our resistance to trusting joy again. Yet, as his heart yielded to True Blood, he rediscovered that curiosity and passion can be reborn even in the ashes of farewell.

There is an irony in his tale, for it was through chance and persuasion—a friend’s gift of a “bootleg copy”—that he was led to his new fascination. Life often works this way. When we refuse change, it sneaks in through the side door, disguised as accident or impulse. By the third episode, O’Hare admits, he was “irrevocably hooked.” The word “irrevocably” carries weight; it speaks of transformation so deep that the heart cannot return to its former state. Thus, what began in reluctance ended in devotion. Such is the mysterious rhythm of renewal: resistance gives way to revelation, and what we once feared to love becomes a new source of joy.

History gives us many echoes of this truth. When the great sculptor Auguste Rodin first lost his muse, Camille Claudel, he thought his art had died with her. For years he resisted new inspiration, haunted by what was gone. Yet, in his later years, he found in the raw shapes of unpolished marble a new voice, one born not of passion but of wisdom. Like O’Hare’s rediscovery through True Blood, Rodin learned that to cling too tightly to one form of beauty is to miss the many faces of creation. Life, art, and love all demand that we let the old die so that something living may take its place.

The lesson that flows from O’Hare’s words is both gentle and profound: endings are not betrayals—they are beginnings in disguise. To resist them is human, but to move beyond them is divine. Whether it is a show, a friendship, a season of our lives, or a dream that once filled our hearts, we must learn to let the curtain fall without despair. For another curtain will rise, perhaps unexpectedly, and in that new light we may find wonder again. The secret lies in remaining open, in trusting that joy will return in new forms if we are humble enough to receive it.

So, my listeners, remember this wisdom: when your heart clings to what is past, do not curse your loyalty, but do not let it chain you either. Mourn, yes, but do not dwell forever in mourning. Let curiosity lead you, as O’Hare was led, toward new stories, new loves, new awakenings. For the world never stops spinning, and beauty never runs out—it only changes its face. And when you find yourself irrevocably hooked once more, smile, for it means that life has succeeded in renewing your heart again.