We're all dying, so let's talk about it

On why talking about death might be the most life-affirming thing we can do.

This one’s a little heavier, even upsetting to some, but also, somehow, lighter. It’s about death, yes, but mostly about life. About why I talk about dying, not to be morbid, but to be real. And why, maybe, you should too. Especially before it’s too late.

It started with a walk. A spontaneous Sunday stroll through Père Lachaise in the middle of Paris's spring. The sun was soft, the breeze kind, and the air filled with birdsong, blossoms, and names carved into stone.

It felt like the perfect time to talk about death, don’t you think?

But when I brought it up with C, while we sat on a park bench, I saw it. That flicker of discomfort. The polite smile that says are you serious? I get it. Most people don’t want to talk about death on a beautiful day. Or on any day, really. It feels too heavy, too final, too… grim.

But I don’t bring it up to be dramatic. I bring it up because I think it’s necessary. Death, when we dare to face it, is a way of sharpening life. When we talk about dying, we’re really talking about how we want to live.

C was honest. She said it made her uneasy. So I asked instead about funeral traditions in her country: how people say goodbye where she’s from. That seemed easier. Softer. And soon enough, we were in it, a real conversation about what we fear, what we hope for, what we leave behind. That’s the magic of it. Once the door opens, people walk through it.

I wasn’t always this way. But more than a decade ago, I watched my mother wither right before my eyes. That experience doesn’t just stay with you. It rearranges you. I’ve learned to talk about death not because it’s easy, but because pretending it isn’t there feels dishonest.

And strangely, witnessing her passing wasn’t horrifying. It was surprisingly peaceful. Don’t get me wrong, it was the most heartbreaking thing to date, devastating even. But there’s something honest about death that few things in life can match. No pretense. Just presence. And love, if you’re lucky.

These past few weeks, it seems death is making its rounds. A world leader passed away. A pair of cultural icons. A friend’s friend, slowly fading. Big losses, small ones, private ones. It’s a steady drumbeat, always in the background.

And it gets me thinking: what about my own death? What happens when I go?

In a book I’m reading, there's a line that struck me: we are all dying. Our cells renew, yes, but some begin to die. We grow and decay, all at once. From the moment we arrive, we begin our exit.

That’s not bleak. That’s biology. And somehow, there’s comfort in that. Death isn’t an error in the system. It is the system. The same one that allows us to bloom, to laugh, to fall in love, to grow old. It’s not an interruption to life, it’s the very thing that frames it.

So why do we run from it? Why do we flinch when the topic comes up?

I ask myself that, too. And while I’d like to say I don’t fear death, the truth is I fear the dying. The pain. The leaving. The possibility of causing pain to the people I love. I’ve thought: what do I want to happen when I’m gone? Honestly? Not my concern — I won’t be there. But I do care about not being a burden. I want it to be simple. I want it to be freeing. No elaborate rites. No confusion. No one running around asking what to do with my body. Just make it quick, clean, and let life go on. Not because I don’t want to be remembered, but because I don’t want to anchor people in their pain. I want to be the kind of person who makes it easier to live, even after I'm gone.

For them, not for me.

That kind of thinking changes how you live. It makes you want to live in a way that gives people the strength to carry on. To miss you, sure. But not to break because of you. To keep going, lighter, not weighed down by unfinished business, unsaid words, or elaborate obligations.

Because what else are we doing here, if not making life a little more bearable for each other?

Maybe that’s the point. Talking about death, not to be dramatic, but to be prepared. To be kind. To be aware of how fragile, fleeting, and precious it all is. And you don’t need to lose someone to realize that. You shouldn’t have to. But many of us only get there after we do.

Some deaths stay with you. Like my cousin, who died on a family trip. Hours before, we exchanged a smile in the kitchen. The next morning, he was gone. He was supposed to drive us back to Manila. Instead, we had to bring his body back. I was young, but I helped. I had to. My aunt was mourning, my dad needed support. I made the calls, I did what needed to be done.

When I told my mom what happened, she told me how she wanted her arrangements to be. At the time, I just nodded. Years later, that moment felt like a gift.

Because when she was dying and we had to face the ugly truth that we had to prepare for when the time comes, I remembered I told my dad and sister, “Mommy wants to be cremated.” They were stunned. But relieved. In a time of chaos, she had given us clarity. That was her final act of love.

Since then, I’ve talked about funerals more often. Not in a morbid way. In a curious, even playful way. With friends. With family. “How do you want yours to go?” Inevitably, the conversation shifts. It becomes less about death and more about how we want to live.

And that’s the core of it. If you strip away the fear and taboo, death isn’t the end of the story. It’s the punctuation that reminds us to read every sentence carefully.

That’s why I was fascinated when I learned and read about this Scandinavian practice called Swedish Death Cleaning or döstädning. It’s the idea that, once you reach a certain age (though you don’t have to wait), you start thoughtfully decluttering your life: your home, your papers, your digital files, so that the people you leave behind aren’t left with the emotional (and literal) mess of your absence.

It’s not just about tidying. It’s an act of love. A soft, quiet way of saying I was here. I cared. I’ve made this easier for you.

And you don’t have to be 75 to start doing it. I think it’s beautiful, even in our 30s or 40s to think: If I were gone tomorrow, would the people I love know what to do? Would they know where to find what matters? Would they be left with boxes of “someday” and drawers full of decisions they didn’t ask for?

Swedish Death Cleaning is a reminder that preparation isn’t just for death, it’s for life. It’s choosing to live more lightly now. To release the unnecessary. To keep only what matters. That practice feels less like a funeral plan and more like a philosophy: a way to move through life with intention, clarity, and care. If you have been in this online space long enough, you would be familiar that this is the kind of life I strive for; the lifestyle I try to embrace, advocate, and openly talk about sometime in 2017. (Read: Why and how I embraced the minimalist lifestyle, 2017)

I’ve attended more funerals than I care to count. Some were overflowing with mourners, others heartbreakingly sparse. Some full of music and stories, others hushed and hurried. And across all of them, one thing was clear: funerals are for the living. The rituals, the flowers, the eulogies, they help us make sense of the loss. They help us remember. The dead are already gone. We’re the ones left behind to carry the weight.

But even then, I find meaning. I've spoken at memorials, received guests, and told stories. And every time, I think: why do we wait until someone dies to say what we feel? What a waste. What a shame. Wouldn’t it be better to say it now, while they can still hear us?

So I try. I try to tell people what they mean to me while they’re still here. Even if it feels awkward. Even if they brush it off. Because I don’t want to waste eulogies on people who will never hear them. I don’t want my love to arrive in hindsight.

Life is brief. But it’s also beautiful. And if death has taught me anything, it’s this: don’t wait. Don’t wait to love. Don’t wait to say something kind. Don’t wait to live fully.

No matter who you are or where you're from, death is coming for all of us. But that’s not a reason to panic. It’s a reason to pay attention. To savor. To care.

There’s this word in Lithuanian that I like: Pasaulis, meaning earth or world. It’s a combination of two words, the preposition pa meaning “under” and saulė meaning “sun”. We all live under the same sun. And one day, each of us will leave it. That’s not something to fear; rather, it’s something to honor. Every culture has its way of saying goodbye, of making sense of loss, of continuing the story. And in every one of them, the message is the same: life is brief. Live now. Because we’re all slowly dying. And that, oddly enough, is what makes life so worth living.

So, let’s talk about life, shall we?