When I first joined the newspaper, I never imagined obituaries would become one of my most profound teachers. Many might find this topic unusual, perhaps even morbid. But sitting where I do now, witnessing the final narratives of so many lives, has fundamentally reshaped my understanding of both death and legacy.

In my youth, “obituary” was merely a word – a somber section of the newspaper I’d occasionally glance at, recognizing it simply as evidence that someone had died and others mourned. The notices existed in my peripheral awareness, neither meaningful nor meaningless, just another part of the publication landscape.

This comfortable distance collapsed when my mother passed away during my early twenties. As the family writer, the responsibility fell to me – crafting the public announcement of her departure from this world. My sister, aunt, grandmother and I gathered, piecing together the chronology of her existence: birth, education, marriage, children, career, hobbies, and finally, her death. We debated which details to include, which to omit, struggling to distill decades of vibrant life into a few column inches.

For weeks afterward, I questioned every word choice, every included or excluded detail. Had I honored her properly? Did the clinical structure of dates and survivors truly capture who she had been? The word “obituary” had transformed from abstract concept to personal burden – a responsibility every family must eventually shoulder for their loved ones.

Years later, when I returned to the Telegram and joined the newspaper composition department – designing ads and arranging the final printed products. Most followed predictable patterns until the day I received something extraordinary: a self-authored obituary from a terminally ill woman.

Her words danced across the page with humor and candor. Rather than the standard chronological recitation, she spoke directly to readers – sharing inside jokes, offering forgiveness to old enemies, providing advice and celebrating the absurdities she’d encountered throughout her journey. She’d written not just an announcement of death but a final communication – a deliberate message crafted with her unique voice.

As I transferred her words from handwritten page to newspaper template, tears streamed down my face. In that moment, “obituary” transformed again – from burden to benediction, from somber announcement to sacred narrative.

I realized these notices aren’t merely documentation of someone’s departure – they’re vessels carrying the essence of entire lives. They’re final conversations, last contributions to the community dialogue. At their best, they don’t just report that someone existed; they testify to how they existed, what they valued, whom they loved, what they built, what they learned.

This perspective has transformed my work. When families bring their raw grief to our office, I now recognize the privilege of helping shape how their loved ones will be remembered. Each obituary represents not just an ending but a distillation – the concentrated essence of decades of human experience preserved in words.

What began as a peripheral responsibility has become one of my most meaningful contributions – helping families transform pain into permanence, grief into legacy. In an age of digital ephemera, these printed testimonies endure, telling future generations not just that we were here, but who we were while here.

The lessons from obituaries extend beyond my professional role. They’ve taught me to consider my own life differently – to question which moments, relationships, and contributions might one day define my own narrative. They’ve shown me that our stories continue after we’re gone, carried forward in the memories we cultivate and the words we leave behind.

Each day at this desk reminds me that we are all, in our way, writing our obituaries through how we live – crafting the legacy that others will one day struggle to capture in print. And perhaps that’s the most profound lesson of all.

Yet obituaries represent just one facet of the difficult conversations we avoid around death. While I’ve grown comfortable with the language of remembrance, I’ve noticed how many families struggle not just with what to say about their loved ones, but with far more immediate decisions they never anticipated having to make.

It’s often said that death brings out complicated emotions in people. I’ve witnessed this firsthand – how grief intertwines with uncertainty when families must make profound choices without clear guidance. Those left behind to mourn also inherit the burden of impossible questions: What would she have wanted? How would he have chosen? The raw vulnerability of loss makes these questions all the more agonizing when they’ve never been discussed before.

Just as we hesitate to imagine our own obituaries, few of us plan ahead for that portion of life when we are no longer living. Important decisions about our final arrangements, our medical preferences, even the profound gift of organ donation – all too often these matters remain unaddressed until crisis forces the conversation.

A few months ago, I shared the story of Crickett Volmer, a vibrant, talented young woman in her twenties whose life ended suddenly from a pulmonary embolism. In their darkest moment of grief, her family made the decision to donate her organs, recognizing Crickett’s generous spirit and love for others. Their choice brought light from darkness, allowing Crickett’s legacy to live on in the lives she saved.

What would your family do if they were faced with the decision whether or not you wanted to donate your organs should your life on earth be ended? Would they honor your wishes? How can we expect them to do so, if we don’t talk about it? How can we open the lines of communication to ensure our families are not grieving our deaths and trying to plan our funeral services?

Perhaps the greatest gift we can offer our loved ones isn’t just a well-lived life, but the clarity that comes from difficult conversations had in moments of health and presence. Whether through written wishes, family discussions, or formal documents, we can extend one final act of love: relieving them of the burden of uncertainty when grief is already too heavy to bear.

Like that remarkable woman who wrote her own obituary, we all have the opportunity to shape not just how we’re remembered, but how our values continue to influence the world after we’re gone. The legacies we leave aren’t accidents of fate – they’re choices we make every day, including the choice to speak openly about what matters most. Consider writing your own obituary, even if death seems distant. Open this door not just for yourself, but as a final gift of clarity to those who will one day carry your memory. After all, the greatest burden we can lift from our loved ones is the weight of uncertainty when grief is already too heavy to bear.