Why Are We Afraid To Talk About Death?

What if death isn’t an end, but a transition?

Photo taken by me of sunlight behind dead plants and leaves.

Death is a constant presence, an inherent part of life, a fact of humanity. Yet in much of western culture, we pretend this isn't the case. We are afraid to talk about death, or acknowledge it in any way. We avert our eyes, lower our voices, and avoid bringing up our own or others’ losses, as if that will protect us from the heartbreak.

But it won’t, as I know all too well.

I was seventeen when my thirteen-year-old brother Jay was killed while riding his bike—an accident he had predicted over a year in advance, down to the color of the car that hit him. He told us he’d seen his fate in a dream. “I will die young,” he told my mom and I repeatedly, his voice calm and sure. “It won’t be much longer, I want you to be prepared.” He stated it as a simple fact, a truth he carried like a quiet flame. Yet for those of us who loved him, those words were heavy, almost unbearable. We didn’t want to hear them. We couldn’t face the possibility of his absence, couldn’t swallow a reality in which accidental death was imminent, let alone foreseeable. We tried to ignore his message.

Then, when Jay’s tragic death unfolded exactly as he told us it would, we tried to deny reality. My mother retreated from the world, and from me. There was no space to grieve and no one to grieve with, as if everyone who had known Jay had died along with him. From the few people who remained in my life, I repeatedly got the message that I needed to move on and get over it, so I turned to drugs and alcohol, common coping tools in my family culture. I tried to forget I’d ever had a little brother, to live within a mirage of marijuana smoke and drunken one-night-stands. It wasn’t really living, but for a while it was the best I could do.

→ Read these stories in more detail in my memoir, What My Brother Knew.

Photo of Jay, my mother Carol, and I, taken by a Victorian photo service circa 1978.

The thing that really scared me straight, so to speak, and helped me get into treatment, was actually my heightened fear of death. I realized that if I continued on the way I was going, my mother wouldn’t have any living children, a tragedy that seemed too great to allow. I got clean and sober, though I lived in constant terror. I had formed a conclusion that death was all around, haunting me, that it is inherently traumatic, painful, inevitable. From what I can see, this is how many people relate to death, especially those who have experienced loss firsthand.

Now, however, after more than thirty years of healing through counseling, meditation, crying and screaming, colon cleansing, and so many other therapies, not only am I living healthily into my sixties; I have an entirely different perspective on death. I believe what Rainer Maria Rilke wrote: “Death is our friend precisely because it brings us into absolute and passionate presence with all that is here, that is natural, that is love.”

Jay seemed to live by this understanding, as if he had made peace with death’s proximity. He lived with urgency and purpose, not as if he were racing against time but as if he were deeply aware of its fleeting nature. His words and actions held a weight, a depth. Though I didn’t realize it until much later, it was a gift to be close to someone who was unafraid to face the inevitable head on. Death presses us to cherish what we have. Jay’s ability to embrace this truth taught me that to speak openly about death is to honor life. In denying it, we lose sight of what makes each moment sacred.

This isn’t to say I’m disconnected from all fear surrounding death—I still feel fear from time to time, and honor that fear in myself and others. Death carries so many unknowns, so many questions: What happens when we die? Will I be remembered? Will it hurt? Is it the end of consciousness? These questions demand a closeness to truth, and truth can feel too raw, too exposing. To speak of death is to confront our own impermanence and the fragility of everything we hold dear. Yet if we only live in the avoidance of death, we miss the opportunity to be intimate with what does bring us to truth. 

It took many years before I could speak openly about Jay’s death, and after I started to do so, each time brought more healing. I understand why we avoid the conversation. Death is unpredictable, beyond our control. To admit its inevitability feels like surrender, like giving up the illusion that we can keep what we love forever. But I have learned that in speaking of death, we are not surrendering; we are awakening. We are making space to cherish the fragile beauty of life, to notice its fleeting wonders; to ponder the mystery of consciousness, to notice its cosmic nature.

Photo of my brother Jay as a boy, taken by my mother Carol.

A couple years ago, a friend of Jay’s told me a story about Jay that shocked me. Apparently, minutes before the accident that would kill him occurred, Jay announced, “I don’t care what happens to me when I die!” Could it be that knowing the certainty of his death erased the fear of the unknown that most of us feel? What if death isn’t an end, but a transition? Carrying the torch of Jay’s story has taught me that death holds a profound mystery—one that underscores the beauty of life. Instead of fearing it, we can view it as a teacher, inviting us to live more fully. In talking about death, we can learn how to live.

→ Read about my journey from loss and abuse to healing and spiritual awakening in my memoir, What My Brother Knew.