When I Die, What I Want You To Talk About at My Funeral

When I die, don't talk about my achievements at my funeral.

Don't list the degrees, the job titles, the places I've been.

The world has enough resumes.

Instead, at my funeral please talk about this instead…

Tell them about the time I laughed so hard in that restaurant that wine came out my nose, and how instead of being mortified, I laughed even harder. Tell them how I kept the stained sweater as a badge of honor.

Tell them I wasn't always brave, but that I tried to be kind, which is its own kind of courage. And that sometimes I chose connection over being right, which anyone in a long-term relationship knows is the real superhero move.

Tell them as I grew older I recognized that the most meaningful accomplishments don’t come from what you manange to achieve in your career… but from what you manage to notice in your day. That paying attention to the beauty in life is the top expertise worth developing. And so, while everyone else was taking photos of monuments, I was taking mental pictures of how my son looked when he was thinking hard about something. Or the specific way my partner's eyes crinkled at the edges when he was amused.

And feel free to them about the time I was so determined to prove a pointless fact at dinner that I googled it under the table, then acted like the information just "came to me." Tell them how my partner caught me, and how we laughed until we couldn't breathe. 

Tell them I collected moments like some people collect souvenirs, that I was greedy for the feel of rain on my face, for bad jokes told well, for the particular silence that falls between two people who don't need to speak to be understood.

And please, whatever you do, don't talk about how I was "always positive," because that would be a freaking lie. I had entire seasons dedicated to sighing dramatically while staring out windows like I was auditioning for a melancholy indie film. Thankfully my capacity for feeling the sadness of life deeply was counterbalanced by my ability to find unexpected joy in small things—like perfectly peeled oranges or the cold spot on a pillow.

Finally, tell them that later on in my life I discovered that time is the most valuable currency. And that once I knew this, I spent it differently—not saving it for some mythical future, but investing in “nows” that mattered.

Tell them that I tried, especially toward the end, to stay awake for my own life, to feel everything—the painful and the beautiful and the bewildering—with equal intensity and gratitude.

Then pour everyone a drink—and tell them to stop mourning and start noticing. The world is ridiculously beautiful. And life is so brief. Don't waste it looking at your phone.

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