Earlier this year, I wrote a blog post called “The Month I Died.” No, I don’t plan to die any time soon, but I am taking a full month off next February with nothing planned on my calendar and virtually no access to my texts or emails. I’m even going to spend the month being known as my given name “Steve” as a further ritual to see what it feels like if I left the planet based upon the question: “What would people honestly say about me if I died this month?”
That question led me to the concept of the “social eulogy”—the emotional legacy we leave in the hearts, nervous systems, and memories of other people.
Not:
- What did you accumulate?
- What title did you hold?
- How optimized was your calendar?
But:
- How did people feel in your presence?
- Did you help others feel seen?
- Did you create belonging?
- Did you make people more whole?
Tomorrow, I’ll be giving my mother’s eulogy. And perhaps because of that, I’ve found myself deeply moved by several recent articles on the growing phenomenon of “living funerals.”
Yes, funerals for people who are still alive.
At first, the idea sounds a little emotionally overachieving—as if Marie Kondo and hospice care collaborated on an event. But the more I’ve read about them, the more profound they seem.
A recent Washington Post article described people gathering while they’re still healthy enough to attend and participate in what is essentially a celebration of their life in real time. Family members share stories. Friends express gratitude. People say the things we usually save for after someone is gone. One person described hearing affirmations and memories they had never heard in decades of relationships. Another said it allowed them to stop wondering whether their life mattered.
That’s the tragedy of traditional funerals: the guest of honor misses the entire show.
Another article from Dignity Memorial explained that living funerals are becoming more popular because they allow people to express appreciation, create emotional closure, repair relationships, and reduce regret. In other words, they transform the funeral from an event about loss into an experience of connection.
And then I read something fascinating in a medical journal article on end-of-life psychology. Researchers noted that consciously engaging with mortality often increases emotional authenticity, life satisfaction, gratitude, and relational depth. Apparently, death is very clarifying.
This shouldn’t surprise us. Mortality is life’s greatest editor. It removes the trivial. It sharpens attention. It forces us to ask: “What actually matters now?”
Ironically, many people become more emotionally honest only when death enters the room.
Suddenly, the old grudges seem silly, vulnerability becomes easier, and the need to be loved outweighs the need to be right.
One of the most moving themes in these articles was the idea that living funerals create permission. Permission for people to say things that our culture strangely discourages in everyday life:
- “You changed me.”
- “I admire you.”
- “You helped heal me.”
- “You made my life better.”
Why do we wait until someone dies to become eloquent about love?
At MEA, we often talk about the difference between your résumé virtues and your eulogy virtues. Résumé virtues are about achievement. Eulogy virtues are about character, kindness, wisdom, generosity, courage, and emotional presence.
As I prepare to speak about my mom this weekend, I realize something important: writing a eulogy is less about summarizing a life than revealing a feeling. The people we remember most deeply are rarely the most efficient or accomplished. They are the people who altered the emotional climate around them.
And maybe that’s the deeper invitation of the living funeral movement. It’s not really about rehearsing death. It’s about interrupting emotional procrastination.
Because here’s the truth: most of us are withholding appreciation that deserves daylight now.
We assume there will be another dinner, another holiday, another conversation, another year.
But mortality doesn’t work on our preferred timeline.
So perhaps we don’t all need a formal living funeral. (Although I have to admit, there’s something oddly appealing about hearing your own tribute while still upright and able to enjoy the appetizers.). But maybe we do need more living eulogies.
Maybe we should become more courageous about telling people who they’ve been for us, how they’ve shaped us, what we cherish, and what would disappear if they disappeared.
Because the greatest tragedy isn’t death.
It’s waiting too long to express love while everyone is still here to hear it.
-Chip