My brother passed away a year and a half ago unexpectedly. My world disintegrated. I had never mourned someone to the degree that it changed my being. Though I went to a few therapy sessions and some grief counseling, I was not coherent with the language of death and did not want to be. I eluded grief groups despite all the evidence that it could help. I felt trapped, alone, and abandoned because I was not connecting with people that could relate. It wasn’t until recently, through Hello I’m Dead, that I began to seek out gatherings that openly talked about death.

Though I sought these spaces out with the intent of being more of an observer than a participant, I found myself finally confronting what I had been avoiding. My experiences submerged me in confrontation with the great unknowable. I have started admitting the awful truths that come with seemingly insurmountable grief and sitting with the unpleasantness, the confusion, and the epiphanies. The journey has not been linear but has been progressive. Below I share with you my last week in death.

The week started with The Nest, an interactive and immersive experience by Hatch Escapes. It follows the life of the main character, Josie, as one sifts through her belongings in an inherited storage facility. She’s left behind recordings that narrate her memories as one explores the space, piecing together a story of a woman wrecked with tragedy, but full of aspirations. I could not help but flash back to entering my brother’s bedroom after he had gone, overwhelmed by the remnants of a soul. I gathered items dear to me that would later encompass a small alcove in my residence dedicated to his memory. I left The Nest pondering what tangible and intangible things we leave behind, unintentionally or not, for those still around. What do we collect in life that passes on to our loved ones and strangers?

A few days later, I attended “Hot People Grieving,” a grief circle that gathers once a month at Studio DDLA, a community and art space reserved for “death, grief, life, and loss” in LA’s Chinatown. Surrounded by sweeping painted landscapes that are part of an art installation titled “What Not to Say,” I sat with others on simple cushions talking about those we have lost. This was my first time specifically gathering with folks I didn’t know to grieve together. Although I thought I had little to say, I discovered that I was brimming with confessions, things surrounding my brother’s death I had been too ashamed to even write down in my journal. I lamented missing out on a “grace period” for which I could be excused in my grief and the casseroles that were never left on my doorstep because our family refused any sort of condolences. My divulgences were met with empathy and sympathy, as well as permission to feel whatever it is I wanted to feel. Giving myself permission to feel everything, though simple in nature, had not been in my vocabulary. The release I felt was substantial.

Death Cafes were started in 2011 in London by Jon Underwood with the intent for people all around the world to “gather to eat cake, drink tea and discuss death.” The objective is “to increase awareness of death with a view to helping people make the most of their (finite) lives.” Though there were coffee and donuts in lieu of tea and cake at Heavy Manners Library Wednesday night, the objective was thoroughly met. Instead of a focus on what was lost, the topic of conversation dwelled heavily on what life was for. Someone quoted Confucius: “We have two lives, and the second begins when we realize we only have one.” I found myself tearing up at a realization that my life’s meaning had gone by the wayside, that I had grown accustomed to tying my worth and value to my profession, instead of myself. The compassion that encompassed the room filled me with hope, something that I had not felt in ages.

I wrapped up my week in front of a bookstore, crying. A community grief circle I planned to attend was cancelled that day. I had been excited for another session of insight and inspiration, and was abruptly hit with that deep feeling of loneliness. If I had learned anything this past week, it was that the communal act of conversation around death was something I desperately needed and lacked for too long. I found myself ridden with the same poisoned thoughts I wrestled with in the immediate aftermath of my brother’s passing. I berated myself for not being able to take the unforeseen change of plans smoothly, to have space for introspection and solitude that didn’t devolve into despair. This lasted longer than I’d like to admit and the following days I was steeped in desperation.

Thankfully, I’ve climbed out of that mire by reaching out to loved ones, reminding myself of what I had learned, and signing up for more events around my city. I did not allow myself to succumb to weeks on end of overthinking and gloom, as had been my habit. I fought my way out. Looking back on these past several days, I feel immense gratitude for all I have gotten to experience, even the anguish. By revisiting old ways of thinking and overcoming them with the tools I’ve recently gathered, I grow stronger in my struggle to see death in reality. I will not leave behind devastation, because I give myself grace, know my worth, and see the treasures in being able to feel so much of what life has to offer. In finding community in death, I have gained an invaluable bedrock to healing, and I know you can, too.

If you’re interested in finding spaces like these, I encourage you to search for “Death Cafes,” “grief circles,” or “community mourning events” alongside your city or neighborhood name. Libraries, community centers, independent bookstores, and art spaces often host these types of gatherings. Platforms like Eventbrite, Meetup, or even local hospice and doula networks are great avenues to find death-positive programming. Don’t be discouraged if the first event you find doesn’t feel like the right fit; it’s okay to try different spaces until one feels like home. What matters is allowing yourself the chance to speak, to listen, and to be witnessed. These spaces exist. They are waiting for you.

‍