The Collective Avoidance We All Share

Here's something I've noticed: we'll plan vacations years in advance, obsess over retirement accounts, and spend hours choosing the right car. But when it comes to planning for the one thing that's absolutely guaranteed to happen to all of us? We suddenly get very busy with other things.

Death is the ultimate taboo topic.

We've got all these euphemisms to avoid saying the word: "passed away," "lost," "no longer with us." We avoid talking about it with our families. We don't plan for it until we absolutely have to. And we definitely don't spend time thinking about what it means or how we want to approach it.

I get it. I really do.

For most of my life, I avoided thinking about death like it was my job. Even when I had cancer the first time, I treated it like a problem to solve, a challenge to overcome. I didn't actually sit with the reality that someday – maybe soon, maybe later – I'm going to die.

Then I got diagnosed with two aggressive cancers simultaneously. And suddenly, avoiding the topic wasn't really an option anymore.

Here's what I've learned: our collective avoidance of death doesn't protect us from it. It just means we're unprepared when it shows up. And it means we miss out on the clarity and meaning that can come from actually facing our mortality.

The PTSD Around Death Is Real

Let's be honest about why we avoid this topic so intensely.

Most of us have some level of trauma around death. Maybe you watched a loved one die badly – in pain, with their dignity stripped away, surrounded by machines in a sterile hospital. Maybe you lost someone suddenly and never got to say goodbye. Maybe you've experienced so much loss that thinking about more feels unbearable.

Or maybe you just grew up in a culture that treats death as a failure rather than a natural part of life. We spend billions trying to look younger, stay healthy, and extend life at all costs. Where admitting you're mortal feels like admitting defeat.

All of this creates a kind of collective PTSD around the topic.

We don't have healthy models for how to think about death, talk about death, or prepare for death. So we don't. We just stick our heads in the sand and hope it doesn't happen for a very long time.

The problem is that hope isn't a strategy. And avoidance doesn't make death less real – it just makes us less prepared for it.

What We're Not Doing (And Why It Matters)

Let me tell you what most people aren't doing when it comes to death planning.

We're not having the conversations. When was the last time you talked with your spouse about what kind of medical interventions you'd want if you couldn't speak for yourself? Have you told your kids what matters most to you about how you're remembered? Have you discussed with your siblings what you'd want for your parents' end-of-life care?

Most of us haven't had any of these conversations. We tell ourselves there's time. Or that it's too morbid. Or that it'll just upset people.

We're not making the plans. Sure, maybe you have a will. Maybe you've got life insurance. But do you have a healthcare proxy? A living will? Have you thought about what kind of funeral or memorial you'd want? Have you considered whether you want to be buried, cremated, or something else entirely, maybe a green burial?

We're not facing our own mortality. This is the deepest work. Actually sitting with the reality that you're going to die. Not as an abstract concept someday in the distant future, but as a real thing that will happen. Maybe tomorrow, maybe in 30 years, but definitely.

And here's why all of this matters: when we don't do this work, we leave our loved ones in chaos.

They have to make medical decisions without knowing what you would have wanted. They have to plan funerals and memorials, guessing at what would feel right to you. They're left with unsaid words and unresolved issues. And they're doing all of this while grieving and overwhelmed.

Our avoidance doesn't protect us. It just transfers the burden to the people we love most.

The Practical Stuff (That Most People Skip)

Let's start with the basics that everyone should have, but most people don't.

A will. Not someday. Now. It doesn't matter if you're 35 or 75 – if you have any assets or anyone you care about, you need a will. Without one, the state decides what happens to your stuff and who takes care of your kids if you have them.

Healthcare proxy and living will. These documents specify who can make medical decisions for you if you can't, and what kind of medical interventions you want or don't want. Do you want to be kept alive on machines? For how long? Under what circumstances? These are hard questions, but someone's going to have to answer them. Better you than your panicked spouse in a hospital hallway.

Life insurance (if people depend on you). If your death would create financial hardship for people you love, you need life insurance. Period.

A list of accounts and passwords. When you die, someone's going to need to access your bank accounts, investment accounts, email, social media, and all the other digital pieces of your life. Make it easy for them. Write it down. Put it somewhere secure but accessible.

Your wishes for end-of-life care and after. Do you want to be buried or cremated? Where? What kind of memorial service, if any? What should happen to your body? These aren't pleasant things to think about, but they're real decisions that someone will have to make.

I know this sounds grim. But here's the thing: having these basics handled is actually freeing. It's one less thing hanging over your head. And it's a gift to your loved ones – they won't have to guess or fight about what you would have wanted.

The Deeper Work: Facing Your Mortality

But the practical stuff, as important as it is, isn't really what "facing death differently" is about.

The deeper work is actually sitting with your mortality. Really facing it. Not as an abstract concept but as a lived reality.

This is hard. Really hard.

When I got my double cancer diagnosis, I had to face some uncomfortable truths. The survival rates aren't great. I probably won't see 80. I might not see 75. Every day I wake up is a day closer to not waking up.

That sounds morbid. But here's what's weird: facing it directly has actually made me less anxious, not more.

When you stop avoiding death, when you actually look at it straight on, something shifts. You get clearer about what actually matters. You stop wasting time on bullshit that doesn't. You say the things that need to be said instead of assuming you'll have time later.

Here's what facing your mortality actually looks like:

It means occasionally sitting with the question: "If I died tomorrow, what would I regret?" Not to torture yourself, but to get clear about what needs to change today.

It means thinking about how you want to be remembered – and then asking whether you're actually living in a way that would create that memory.

It means having uncomfortable conversations with the people you love about what happens when you're gone.

It means making peace with the life you've actually lived instead of the one you thought you'd live. This includes making peace with your immediate family, and you will be surprised by how much peace you need to make. (Or, at least I did.)

It means accepting that some things won't get finished, some dreams won't come true, and some problems won't get solved. And that's okay.

The Conversations That Need to Happen

One of the most important things you can do is start having honest conversations about death with the people you love.

Not once, in some big heavy sit-down conversation. But regularly, as a normal part of life.

With your spouse or partner:

• What kind of medical interventions do you want if you're seriously ill?

• How do you want to be cared for if you're dying?

• What do you want the other person to know about your wishes, your values, your regrets?

• What would you want them to do after you're gone – remarry? Move? Travel?

With your kids:

• What do you want them to know about who you were and what you cared about?

• What are the important stories they should know?

• What advice would you want to leave them?

• How do you want to be remembered?

With your parents (if they're still alive):

• What are their wishes for end-of-life care?

• What kind of funeral or memorial would they want?

• What are the stories and history you need to hear before it's too late?

These conversations are uncomfortable. They're hard. People might resist them or change the subject.

But they're also some of the most important conversations you'll ever have.

I've had friends who lost parents suddenly and realized they had no idea what their parents would have wanted. I've watched families fight over funeral arrangements because the deceased never said what they wanted. I've seen people carry regret for decades because they never had the conversation they needed to have.

Don't let that be you.

What Does a "Good Death" Look Like?

Here's a question that's worth sitting with: What does a good death look like to you?

Not someone else's version. Not what you think you're supposed to say. But actually, for you, what would make death feel okay?

For some people, it's dying at home surrounded by family. For others, it's dying peacefully in their sleep without being a burden. For some, it's having fought as hard as possible. For others, it's accepting it and going gently.

There's no right answer. But there is your answer. And figuring out what that is helps you make better decisions about medical care, end-of-life planning, and how you want to spend whatever time you have left.

I've been thinking about this a lot lately. For me, a good death would mean:

• I said the things that needed to be said to the people I love

• I didn't waste my last months or years on treatment that would destroy my quality of life for minimal gain

• I faced it honestly without pretending or avoiding

• I left clear instructions so my loved ones aren't burdened with guessing

• I made peace with what I did and didn't accomplish

Your list might be completely different. That's fine. The point is to figure out what yours is.

Living Differently When You Know You're Dying

Here's something I've learned from facing my own mortality more directly: when you really accept that you're going to die, you start living differently.

Not in some dramatic, quit-your-job-and-travel-the-world way. But in small, significant ways.

You stop putting off the conversations that matter. You care less about impressing people who don't really know you. You get clearer about what actually brings you joy versus what you think you're supposed to enjoy. You say no to more things and yes to the things that really matter.

You stop saving the good wine for special occasions because you realize today is the special occasion.

You tell people you love them instead of assuming they know.

You forgive people – including yourself – because carrying grudges seems exhausting and pointless when time is limited.

This isn't morbid. This is actually the opposite of morbid. This is life-giving clarity.

The tragedy isn't that we're all going to die. The tragedy is that most of us live like we're not going to, and then we're surprised and unprepared when it happens.

Different Options for After

Let's talk practically about what happens to your body after you die, because most people have no idea they have options.

Traditional burial: Your body is embalmed, put in a casket, and buried in a cemetery plot. This is expensive and not particularly environmentally friendly, but it's what most people default to.

Cremation: Your body is cremated and the ashes returned to your family. They can keep them, scatter them, or bury them. This is cheaper and more flexible than traditional burial. And, still not environmentally friendly.

Green burial: Your body is buried without embalming, in a biodegradable casket or shroud, in a natural setting. This is the most environmentally friendly option.

Body donation: You can donate your body to medical science for research or education. After they're done (usually 1-3 years), they'll cremate the remains and return them to your family.

Newer options: There are now options like human composting (legal in some states) where your body becomes soil, or alkaline hydrolysis (water cremation), which is more environmentally friendly than fire cremation.

The point isn't that one option is better than another. The point is that you have choices. And making those choices now, while you're healthy and clear-headed, is better than leaving your family to guess or fight about it while they're grieving.

Start Today

I know this has been heavy. Death isn't exactly a cheerful topic.

But here's what I want you to take away from this: facing death doesn't make it happen sooner. Avoiding it doesn't keep it away.

What facing death does is give you clarity. It helps you live better. It prepares you and your loved ones for the inevitable. And it can actually be weirdly freeing once you stop running from it.

So here's what I'd encourage you to do:

Start one conversation this week with someone you love about what you'd want if something happened to you.

Get the basic documents in place if you don't have them – will, healthcare proxy, living will.

Sit with the question of your own mortality for even just ten minutes. Not to freak yourself out, but to get clear about what really matters.

Write down what you'd want people to know or remember about you if you died tomorrow.

It's not morbid. It's honest. And honesty is how we face death differently than the cultural default of avoidance and panic.

Because here's the truth: you're going to die. I'm going to die. Everyone we love is going to die.

The question isn't whether. The question is: are we going to face it with intention, preparation, and honesty? Or are we going to keep avoiding it until we have no choice?

Let's choose differently.

Let's figure this out together. I want to investigate this topic further. Do you want to join me? Let me know in the comments.