Last Saturday, Logan and I attended another Café Mortel (Death Café) gathering.
For those unfamiliar, a Death Café is a gathering where people come together to talk openly about death, dying, and grief. No agenda. No judgment. No one trying to fix anyone. Just human beings having conversations about something society has become remarkably uncomfortable discussing.
And it was beautiful.
There we were, people of different ages, backgrounds, cultures, beliefs, and life experiences, sitting together in one room talking about death and grief.
There were tears. There was laughter. There were stories of loved ones we’ve loved and lost, experiences we’re navigating now, and losses that have stayed with us for years.
There was vulnerability. There was empathy.
There was community.
And I couldn’t help thinking about how desperately we need more of this. Somewhere along the way, we’ve created a culture that seems to believe grief comes with an expiration date.
Why are you still grieving?
You need to move on.
It’s been long enough.
You should be over this by now.
Excuse me, but who the heck decided that?
When did loving someone become something we’re supposed to get over?
When did missing someone become a problem that needs fixing?
And when did we become so uncomfortable with another person’s pain that our response became telling them to hurry up and stop feeling it? The lack of empathy surrounding grief genuinely breaks my heart.
And sometimes, I think it’s downright cruel.
Grief isn’t a malfunction. It isn’t weakness. It isn’t something we can neatly package into five stages, slap a timeline on, and declare finished. We don’t simply get over the people we’ve loved.
And grief isn’t reserved for death, either.
We grieve beloved pets. Friendships. Relationships. Our health. Jobs. Dreams. The lives we thought we’d have. Sometimes we grieve people who are still very much alive.
Loss takes many forms, and none of us gets to decide how deeply another person should feel theirs. This is why I became a death care educator and grief activist. Because of what I’ve experienced. Because of what I’ve witnessed. Because of the friends, family members, and complete strangers who’ve been made to feel that their grief is somehow inconvenient, excessive, or wrong.
I want to help change that conversation. I want us to become a society that can sit beside someone in their grief without reaching for a platitude or trying to make their pain disappear.
Sometimes people don’t need advice.
Sometimes they just need someone willing to sit with them and say, I’m here. I’m listening.
And that’s what I witnessed at Café Mortel.
People being seen. People being heard. People being allowed to feel whatever they were feeling.
No critique. No competition over whose loss was greater. No expectation that anyone should be further along in their grief.
Just people showing up for one another.
What a lovely thing.
And the experience got me thinking about community in other areas of my life, including social media. I’ve been on Facebook since its inception. I’ve made some wonderful connections, and there are people I’ve genuinely enjoyed getting to know. But I’ve also been reconsidering where I want to spend my time and creative energy.
I want more meaningful conversations. More writing. More storytelling. More opportunities to talk about what matters, even when it makes people uncomfortable.
And perhaps a little less scrolling through the endless noise.
Just making a conscious decision to spend more time in spaces that support the work I want to do and the life I want to live. I’ll continue sharing my personal essays, reflections on grief, death, creativity, and the beautifully messy business of being human on Substack. You can also find my books, author news, and other creative adventures at here.
If you’d like to stay connected, I’d love to have you along. You can subscribe to receive my writing and updates directly in your inbox without needing another social media account.
I’m not moving to a cabin in the woods and communicating exclusively through carrier pigeons. Although that does sound appealing. But I want to be more intentional about how I spend my days. Because one of the greatest lessons death has taught me is that life is extraordinarily precious.
Our time matters. Our connections matter. The way we show up for one another matters. And if we’re going to talk about living vividly, I think we should actually do it.
A little more empathy. A little more community. A little less judgment.
And, naturally, a little rebellion.
For my local afterlifers, here is Cafe Mortel’s gathering schedule:
