We threw a dinner party at a funeral home

A glimpse into the fascinating conversations that happen at a death dinner—and why you should be having them, too.

Dinner at Sparrow

Would you accept an invitation to dinner with death?

You’d be promised beautiful, chef-prepared food, wonderful company and deep conversation—but only if you were willing to be vulnerable, and to brave discussing the one thing most people are afraid to talk about: death.

This past December, we hosted two such dinners at Sparrow, a contemporary funeral home in Brooklyn. In a room that had held hundreds of funerals, where thousands of people had said their final goodbyes, a group of curious souls joined together over a candlelit meal to talk openly about a wide range of mortality-related topics, including grief, AI and the digital afterlife, spirituality, medical assistance in dying, and of course, love.

The dinners were inspired by the global Death Over Dinner movement, but with our own Hello, Mortal twist using Death Archetypes, a contemplative personality test designed to shed light on your own attitudes and views on mortality and impermanence. We shared our archetypes (including the mystic, the ancestor, the phoenix, and the lover)as a way to get “in the mood” and spark conversation and reflection.

December—the year’s end, and a time of both darkness and celebration—felt like the right time to gather around death. And for both of us, the timing was charged with extra meaning. I (Maura) held both dinners during the week of both my parents’ birthdays and my own birthday, which felt like a meaningful way to celebrate and honor not only my parents (one dead, one alive), but also the experience of aging. (Not to mention a milestone birthday for me, the often-dreaded “halfway to 40” birthday that is turning 35.) And I (Carolyn) co-hosted the December 4 dinner the night before leaving for the Hoffman Process, a powerful weeklong retreat that took me into a deep contemplation of death and grief, and brought a level of healing and peaceI didn’t know was possible. In a perfect moment of synchronicity, the guy who sat down next to me on the shuttle from the airport to the retreat center in the Canadian Rockies turned out to be an estate lawyer from Dallas. We talked about our views on embracing mortality, and I learned that he hosts gatherings at a local brewery encouraging people to prepare for death, with a touch of humor and levity (and his signature “You’re Gonna DiePA” lager).

These intimate dinners made one thing unquestionably clear: we need to talk about death, and we need to have these conversations together, in person. Nothing can replace the alchemy of IRL conversation and its power to lower our defenses, remind us of what we share and how we’re all connected, and open our minds to new perspectives.

Something transformative happens when you put a bunch of strangers in a room, light candles, share food and drink, and talk openly about mortality. We’ve hosted similar events (Death Over Coffee) in a virtual setting, and while they’re certainly meaningful, it’s just not the same. In person, you can tangibly feel the energy shift—the way the room leans in when someone shares something vulnerable, like naming a fear or regret you resonate with. And being together in a funeral home made death even more literal—the space itself was a reminder that this isn’t hypothetical; it’s our future.

To get the ball rolling, we started the event with a moment of shared silence. Then we invited the guests to repeat after us, speaking aloud three fundamental truths:

I am alive.

I will die.

I have no idea how much time I have left.

From there, we were off and running for a couple hours of powerful and wide-ranging conversations. While the conversation touched on many different topics, a few themes came up both nights that brought death out of the shadows and into a vibrant, life-affirming conversation. We thought we’d share some highlights of the conversation with you.

Dying vs. Passing Away

One of the biggest conversational points of the night was language. In a culture that almost never names death directly, euphemisms like “passed away” or “lost” or “transitioned” can be a symptom of avoidance, cultural differences, and a coping tool.

One night, a guest bravely ventured to say that they hate the phrase “passed away,” sparking an impassioned debate among the entire group. This person said they didn’t want to be told someone “passed on”—they want (what they define as) the truth: this person died. For them, the euphemism feels almost insulting, as if the person delivering the news doesn’t think they’ll be able to handle the reality that is death.

In response, other people shared that they use “passed away” very intentionally to protect their own nervous system. The conversation sparked an important insight for me (Carolyn) about how I used different words to speak of different losses. I shared with the group that while I usually tell people “My dad died,” when I speak of my brother’s death, I usually say “My brother passed away.” It occurred to me that this was a way to protect myself from the other person’s reaction to hearing of the death of a sibling, and a young person—which is usually discomfort or even shock. It’s a way of controlling how much emotional shrapnel I have to absorb just to share my own experience.

Someone else offered a completely different take: to them, “passing” was literal. It described the movement from one state to another—passing through from Earth into whatever comes next. In that framing, it’s not a softening at all; it’s a spiritual and cultural honoring of death as a transition.

All of these perspectives, of course, are valid—and it was fascinating to see what completely different meanings and associations a single term could carry for different people. What do you say? What do you think? Is saying someone “passed away” a form of avoidance, protection, or simply a belief? The answer around the table was: It depends on who’s saying it, and why. The point isn’t to police vocabulary, but to notice what we’re trying to shield: ourselves, others, or the truth itself.

Should the dead be digitally resurrected?

You can’t go to dinner these days without talking about AI. It’s everywhere, it’s unavoidable, so it’s no surprise that we discussed the use of AI “grief bots”—digital avatars of the dead. We talked at length about the emerging possibility of recreating an AI version of you that can interact with the people you love after you die. Built from someone’s texts, emails, voice notes, photos, and videos, these bots attempt to mimic their voice and personality (and sometimes even their face) so you can ‘chat’ with them by text, call, or video as if they’re still here. Most folks at the table had a visceral negative reaction to the idea. Many, especially those who work in deathcare, expressed their observation that a crucial part of processing grief is accepting, slowly and painfully, that you can’t see or talk to that person face-to-face anymore.

Others, however, could imagine cases in which (with medical and regulatory oversight) an AI avatar might support the grieving process. Some guests shared real use cases and first-hand experience where users felt genuine solace with the help of an AI avatar. Others shared stories where the technology seemed to interfere with grief instead of supporting it.

Through the conversation, a central tension emerged: At what point does “staying connected” become “never letting them go”? When does a grief bot offer comfort, and when does it trap us in a simulation?

One guest, Danny Harris, Executive Director at Aspen Institute Socrates Program, posed a thoughtful question in response: “What does it mean to be human?” His question pulled us out of the “cool vs. creepy tech” debate and into something deeper.

Should we be able to choose our own death?

Circling around the notion of digital immortality (and even physical immortality), there was a brief detour into longevity culture before diving into one of the most controversial topics in end-of-life care: medical aid in dying (MAID).

MAID, is a legal option, in some places, typically for terminally ill individuals under strict criteria and physician oversight, to take medication that will allow them to die peacefully in their sleep. If you’re curious to learn more, read this piece I (Maura) wrote about MAID and what it means to choose your own death.

Many people at the table spoke strongly in favor of it: if you’re dying anyway, and your suffering is unbearable, shouldn’t you have the right to choose the timing and manner of your own death?

But one person pushed back—not against MAID itself, but in his words, “against a world that makes MAID feel so necessary.” He shared that he dreams of a world where MAID isn’t an option because it doesn’t need to be: a world where dying people are truly cared for, where they aren’t abandoned by systems or treated as burdens. In his view, choosing MAID was essentially a choice rooted in fear of the dying process.

At first, his perspective confused some people. I (Maura) thought I understood what he was trying to say. From my time at the MAID conference, I learned that many people pursue MAID for peace of mind, and never actually end up using the medication. Sometimes simply having the option is comforting enough.

Again, we didn’t land on a single “right or wrong” answer or position—MAID after all is a highly controversial topic and a matter of personal choice. What we did was harder: we sat together at one table, with our different experiences, beliefs, and perspectives, and stayed in the room to discuss our disagreements, remembering that behind every stance is the same longing: a peaceful death.

The practical side of dying

We also talked about the logistical and decision-making side of dying: What do you want done with your body after you die? What do you want (or not want) at your funeral? Who do you want to be your medical power of attorney? Do you have an advance directive? Do you have a will?

People shared a desire for a wide range of body disposition methods—from green burial to human composting to donating their body to science to open-air cremation at a Tibetan Buddhist center—and how their choices are influenced by their culture, religion, geography, finances, and climate altruism.

One attendee, Jordana Ibghy, Founder of Urth Ritual, shared how her belief in natural cycles and desire for her death to support new life informs her wish for a green burial with a mycelium coffin.

Another attendee, Darnell Lamont Walker (grab a copy of his new book here!), shared a delightfully humorous story about a conversation he had with his mom, who said she hadn’t yet purchased a cemetery plot near her deceased husband, but wasn’t worried about it. When Darnell asked how she’d feel about being buried elsewhere if that cemetery was full, she replied, “I don’t want to be surrounded by strangers!” (Ironic given that she doesn’t even believe in an afterlife). The story was charming, and gave us the exact dose of levity needed when talking about death at dinner.

We also got into advance directives—a legal document that typically consists of a living will and a medical power of attorney, which allows you to spell out your end-of-life care preferences and appoint a decision-maker if you become incapacitated. I (Maura) shared my take on how I think they’re broken and what I’m doing to fix them (more on that another time). Underneath it all was a simple, sobering reality: most people don’t have a death plan in place, yet intuitively most of us understand that pre-planning is one of the most profound gifts we can give the people we love who will survive us. The problem is, we think we have time, until we don’t.

We joked that we should have created and signed our advance directives right there at the table, since all you need in New York are two witnesses (notarization can help, but isn’t required. Maybe next time…

Even if you prepare… Death is still scary

Even at a table full of people open to the idea of discussing death (many of whom also work in the deathcare space), it was clear that nobody is immune to the fear of death. (It’s only human, after all!) Interestingly, it was much easier for the group to talk about AI than it was to talk about their own fears around dying. At one of the dinners, conversations around artificial intelligence and longevity lingered, while a question about interrogating our own deepest fears around dying and the end of life garnered only a couple brief responses before someone changed the subject.

It’s not entirely surprising, and there’s no judgment here; just an observation and an invitation to self-reflection. We’re all afraid of death in some way, and often unconsciously. One of the things we explore in Death Archetypes is the ways this universal fear of death can play out in different ways based on our personality types. For some, the root of the fear is existential in nature—we might be terrified by the idea of nothingness and annihilation. For others, it’s bodily deterioration and the prospect of losing one’s physical and mental faculties that strikes the deepest chord. And for others, losing the people we love is the core fear. In most cases, it’s a mix of all of the above.

This is also a humbling reminder that most of us (even those who spend a lot of time around death!) have some level of unconscious fear and denial of our mortality. As many great Buddhist teachers have noted, contemplating mortality is a lifelong practice. And, perhaps, our existential anxiety isn’t something to overcome but something to channel into the creation of art, beauty and lives of meaning.

We’re all gonna die. Let’s talk about it.

These dinners were a small attempt to transform the denial of death (an unfortunate, primarily Western cultural taboo) into a celebration of life, and to see what unfolds when we give death a seat at the table. Because avoiding hard conversations doesn’t make them disappear; it just guarantees they’ll ambush you later, louder, with higher stakes.

When was the last time someone asked you about mortality at the dinner table or over coffee?

That’s why we’re dreaming about hosting more in-person gatherings—in different cities, with different formats, and different communities.

If you’d like to see a Dinner with Death (or something like it) where you live: comment with your city! We’ll see if we can organize a local event.

And for those who asked about a template to host your own dinners, we’re working on something special for you! Consider this Part I.

We’re all going to die. Let’s keep finding ways to talk about it—while we’re still here.

— Maura & Carolyn

P.S. We’ve also transformed these dinners into professional workshops, which we’ve already shared at several universities. If you’re interested in bringing one to your community, organization, conference, or retreat, you can reach us directly by replying to this email.