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Hi! I'm Jeff, if you're reading this, it's because I view you as someone I'd want to sit down over matcha and chat about life with. I'll be sending this newsletter out every few weeks or so. If it's not your jam, feel free to unsubscribe, I won't be offended!

“Don’t worry. Everybody passes,” Steve used to say in our year-long seminar Unmasking Mortality whenever someone reported that they hadn’t done the homework. The joke never got old.

Until the other day, that is.

The focus of “death class” is to aim for this specific sweet spot: keeping the fact of our mortality close enough that it helps to inform us how we might live out our remaining years, but not so close that it tips over into the maudlin or the morose.

Steve passed away over a week ago.

I got the news as my mom and I were leaving the follow-up appointment for her cataract surgery. I’d driven up to Seattle to take her in for the surgery and to care for her afterwards. Amidst all of busyness of her procedure, it took a few days for the news about Steve to sink in.

As I walked down the hallway of Mom’s independent living facility, I saw a notice tacked on one of the walls: a photo of a woman about my mom’s age named Phyllis who had died the week prior. Similar announcements were posted around the building. Not a lot, but at least one per wing.

I imagined Steve’s face smiling at me from a piece of paper announcing that he had died, his birth and death dates listed above his picture like a newspaper headline.

Here today, gone tomorrow.

We all knew that Steve would be dying soon. Diagnosed with stage-four cancer back in 2020, he’d had an amazing four plus years of life; furthermore, he’d been very upfront with us about what the process was like for him. Death class with a dying teacher? Very meta. Very in-the-moment. Very amazing.

Today, Unmasking Mortality doesn’t feel so amazing. It feels hard. Grim. The creep of despair, something we’ve talked about a lot in death class, has its grips on me. Because seriously…Up yours, mortality. Who invented you? Why do the lives of such vibrant, loving people have to end?

I am more knowledgeable of death and dying because of this class. And for that, I am deeply grateful. But it doesn’t make it any easier. Just more familiar.

At some point, my mother’s death announcement will be posted on a wall somewhere, maybe in this facility, her sunny face with features that mirror my own smiling down at me. Imagining this causes my heart to clench.

At some point, my husband Terry’s face will be on an announcement somewhere, too. I can barely think of this without sinking to my knees.

At some point, so will my own.

As the Roman poet Virgil wrote: "Death plucks my ear and says, 'Live—I am coming’.”

"Up yours, mortality. Who invented you? Why do the lives of such vibrant, loving people have to end?"

In the depths of this kind of despair, I often reach for distractions, one of my well-worn habits. Something to entertain me. During this season of grief, I’m trying to be kinder to myself. In this case, it means being clear, and honest, with enough compassion that I don’t bonk myself over the head with it. I say these words to myself: “This is true. It is happening. And it will happen again. How and when? I don’t know. But it is inevitable.” It might lead to a good cry. Or an increase of despair. It’s certainly not fun. But with time, the intensity of the emotions dissipates, just like clouds after a particularly brutal winter storm. I am often left with a deeper sense of connection to the people I love. And an appreciation for the exquisiteness of life itself.

If you’re struggling with some grief or despair this holiday season, you are not alone. Be kind to yourself if you can. If possible, sit with it a little longer than might feel comfortable.

It too will pass.

Something Kind

What I'm Reading

Being Mortal

by Atul Gawande

I've now listened to this book four times. Dr. Atul Gawande's research into that period of our lives between independence and death is smart and illuminating: as a society, we treat it as a medical condition to cure, rather than a fact of life that needs great care. I am grateful for his smart, kind words, and his encouragement to have important discussions with family, loved ones, doctors, etc. sooner rather than later.

Buy it here.