My own obituary

It was a warm November morning, the kind where Atlanta forgets it’s autumn. Many neighbors held on to the festive Halloween vibe. Plastic skeletons sagged in folding chairs, foam gravestones tilted in the damp grass, and fake cobwebs swayed on porches. As Lambert sniffed along our morning path on Newton Avenue, I realized, with the kind of clarity that makes you pause mid-stride, that one day I’ll have a headstone, too. Not a prop from a Home Depot, but the real thing.

Then came the harder thought: Who would purchase it for me?

Tears slipped down before I could stop them. Loneliness had become a steady undercurrent in my life. It was sometimes loud, sometimes soft, but always there. I’d spent months trying to connect: showing up to meetups, messaging people on apps, reaching out to friends who were busy living their own complicated lives. None of it seemed to land. I felt like I was knocking on every door in a city full of people and still finding myself outside.

When we got home, I made a second cup of coffee and sat down at my desk, ready to write. Nothing came. The cursor blinked, patient and unhelpful. Out of equal parts humor and desperation, I texted a friend: Have you ever thought about your obituary?

He didn’t answer.

So I called another friend. She asked how I was doing, already knowing that most mornings I fight to make the day feel both productive and enjoyable. I asked if she wanted the honest version or the polite one. She said honest.

So I told her: I was struggling. I wasn’t thinking about death, not really. I was thinking about life, about the strange discomfort in the pit of my stomach even when I was doing all the “right” things. I told her I’d caught myself imagining my obituary, and for a second she laughed because my humor usually walks that dark, self-aware line. Then she heard the truth in my voice. I wasn’t joking.

She made me promise I wasn’t thinking of doing anything drastic; I had been there once. After we hung up, I stared at my blank document and decided to follow the thought. If my life ended today, what would the obituary say?

I began to type.

At first it was just facts: where I was born, what degrees I earned, the jobs I’ve had. Then something shifted. I started writing about what I hoped people might say, like how I made others feel, what kind of friend I tried to be, the small, imperfect ways I’ve contributed to the world. I wrote about the animals I’ve rescued, the students I’ve taught, the organizations I’ve helped grow, the city I’ve come to love even when it’s lonely.

Somewhere in that process, the exercise stopped feeling morbid. It became grounding.

Writing my own obituary wasn’t about picturing the end; it was about taking inventory and about noticing the life I’ve already lived and the parts I still want to fill in.

It made me ask better questions:

What parts of my story feel unfinished? Who and what do I want to show up for next? If someone read this one day, would they know that I loved deeply and unconditionally?

By the time I finished, my coffee was cold, but my breathing had slowed. The ache hadn’t disappeared, but it had shape now, a quiet understanding that the life I’ve built, however imperfect, already matters.

Maybe that’s what grief leaves behind when it’s done hollowing you out: space for perspective, and a chance to try again.

Writing my obituary reminded me that life isn’t measured by who stands at your gravesite; it’s measured by who you’ve been while you’re still here. This includes the courage to start again at forty-something, to write when the words resist you, to keep walking the dog through streets of plastic ghosts and realize that you’re still alive among them.

I’m just a woman who went for a walk, cried past some Halloween decorations, and ended up rediscovering the meaning of purpose in the strangest way.

The obituary I wrote isn’t a goodbye, but rather a plan to make the most of my remaining days.