DEATH CLUB LIVE 🤍 this is the heart of it. our live gathering (death-café-style) where we actually sit together and talk about death, grief and the people we carry. out loud, face to face, no flinching. first rule of DEATH CLUB: we talk about death. this is where we do it. → tap the calendar and hit add to my calendar so you don’t miss the next one → come as you are. you don’t have to speak, you can just sit with us → bring whoever you’re carrying no right way to grieve in here. see you there.

Trusting the unseen I was raised to believe in what could be measured. Proof, evidence, the things you can point to. Anything else was wishful thinking, the mind playing tricks, comfort for people who couldn't face reality. Then Honey came and went, and I started noticing things I couldn't explain. Signs. A sense of presence. Moments of knowing that arrived from somewhere other than my thinking mind. The old me would have explained them away. I don't anymore. I'm not asking anyone to believe anything in particular. I'm just saying I've stopped needing the unseen to be proven before I'll trust it. Some of the truest things I know now can't be weighed or shown to anyone else. They're mine, and they're real, and that's enough. There's a freedom in that, in letting the world be bigger and stranger than the measurable part of it. Have you had a moment of knowing or presence you couldn't explain, and didn't need to? You can say it here. This is the room for it.

Death can be complete We're taught to measure a life by its length. By what it built, what it achieved, how much it managed before it stopped. A long life is a good life. A short one is a tragedy, unfinished. Honey was born and died in the same moment. By that measuring stick, hers barely registered, no years, no achievements, no future. But I was holding something whole. I've come to trust that a life can be complete on its own terms, however long or short it runs. That a soul's path might be exactly what it was meant to be, even when it makes no sense to us, even when it breaks our hearts. Her life wasn't cut short. It was the length it was, and it was whole. This one is hard, and I hold it gently. It doesn't take the grief away, I'd give anything for more time with her. But underneath the grief there's a quieter knowing that nothing was missing. What would it mean to trust that a life was whole, however long it ran? Sit with it, it's a big one.

Living more awake Coming close to death changed how I live. Before Honey, I moved through a lot of my days half-asleep, on autopilot, assuming there'd always be more time, more chances, more later. Her life lasted a single moment, and it rearranged how I see all of mine. Now when I look at my boys, I see walking miracles. Not as a nice thought to have, as something I feel, because I know now how fragile and unlikely the whole thing is. That awareness doesn't make life heavier. It makes it more vivid. This is what I mean by intentional living. Presence, applied on purpose. Choosing how I spend my attention instead of letting it leak away. And it's not a thing you arrive at once and keep, I lose it constantly and come back to it. The coming back is the practice. You don't need grief to live this way. But grief has a way of handing it to you whether you asked or not. Has being near death ever made you live differently? Even briefly, what did it wake you up to?

Grief is also expansion I thought grief was subtraction. Something taken, a hole where a person used to be, and the rest of your life arranged around the gap. It is that. But I've found it's also something I never expected: expansion. Honey's death cracked me open. It hurt more than I knew was possible. And in the same breath it widened me, my capacity to feel, to love, to be present, to meet other people in their own hardest places. I became more, not less. This is the part nobody warns you about, because the inherited story only has room for grief as damage. But love doesn't shrink when someone dies. It goes looking for new shapes. It pours into how you hold the people still here, how awake you are to your own life, how tender you've become with the world. Grief is love with nowhere to land, people say. I've found it also makes new places for love to land. Has grief ever widened something in you, not just taken something away? I'd love to hear about it.