My mother killed herself when I was 12. I won't complete that

Hear, O children of sorrow and of hope, the words of Jane Fonda, who declared: “My mother killed herself when I was 12. I won’t complete that relationship. But I can try to understand her.” In these words there is both grief and grace, both a wound that time cannot mend and a wisdom that only compassion can bring forth. For she speaks of a bond broken too soon, a thread that could not be woven to its end, and yet she chooses not bitterness, but the quest for understanding.

The meaning of this saying is deep as the sea. Fonda acknowledges that some relationships in life will remain incomplete, unfinished songs whose final notes will never be heard. Death, distance, or betrayal may sever them before their time. Yet instead of despairing in the silence, she teaches us that there is another way: to seek to understand those who are gone, to look upon their lives with empathy, and thus to build peace in the heart even where closure cannot be found. This is not the fulfillment of the bond, but it is the healing of the wound.

The origin of these words lies in Jane Fonda’s own life. Born to a family of fame and power, she endured early tragedy when her mother, tormented by mental anguish, ended her life. For a child of twelve, such loss was a shattering of innocence. Fonda could never walk beside her mother into adulthood, never mend the broken pieces of their bond. Yet as she grew, she turned from grief to compassion, from anger to inquiry. She sought not to erase the pain, but to understand the one who bore her, to see her not only as mother but as a human soul struggling in darkness. In that effort of understanding lay her redemption.

History too speaks of such incompletions. Consider the story of Alexander the Great, who lost his father Philip before the full reconciliation of their relationship could be made. Their bond was strained, filled with conflict and ambition, and Alexander was left forever without the chance to heal it. Yet in his later years, he sought to honor Philip’s memory, to preserve his father’s achievements, and thus transformed his grief into legacy. Or recall the poet Virgil, who, at the death of his beloved patrons, turned his pen to works that preserved their honor, even though their presence was gone. In each case, when completion was denied, understanding became the path toward peace.

The lesson is luminous: when bonds are severed before their time, we are not powerless. Though we may not complete what was begun, we can choose to replace despair with empathy, to look upon the lives of others with gentleness rather than judgment. In doing so, we not only honor their humanity but also heal our own. For it is not only the departed who need understanding—the living need it even more, lest grief consume the soul.

Practical wisdom follows. If you have lost a loved one too soon, seek to learn their story—study their struggles, their wounds, their dreams. If you have been hurt by another, strive first to understand before you condemn. This does not mean excusing pain, but it does mean seeing the fuller picture of their humanity. Write, reflect, ask, listen—do what you must to move from the chains of bitterness into the freedom of compassion. For though the relationship may not be complete, the heart can still find peace.

So let Jane Fonda’s words echo as a lantern in the darkness: some ties will remain unfinished, some bonds will never reach their fulfillment. Yet in the act of understanding, in the choice to see with eyes of mercy, we can transform tragedy into wisdom, and pain into peace.

Thus, O children of the future, remember: you cannot always complete the relationship, but you can always choose to understand. And in that choice lies the healing of the soul, the preservation of love, and the triumph of compassion over despair.