How to Be Remembered
Recently, I found myself in a quiet corner of the Portuguese countryside, surrounded by twenty-five of my closest friends.
Some who have known me for decades, others more recently. All of them, in one way or another, had walked by my side through different chapters of life. They came from different cities, Sydney, London, Toronto, and New York, to be with me to celebrate my upcoming birthday.
Some had seen me stumble, some had seen me rise. Many had seen me change.
There was light agenda for the weekend. My partner had taken the lead in organizing it, and somehow, the lack of structure allowed space for something far more meaningful to arrive. People connected easily, as if they had been meant to meet, as if the story of my life had been stitched together into the kind of gathering that needed no explanation.
Lately, I’ve been working with a coach on developing a five-year vision. The intention behind it feels simple but daunting: to develop clarity as I enter a new decade, to deepen alignment between where I place my energy and define what truly matters for me right now. One of the exercises in this process involved writing my own obituary.
At first, I struggled. The very notion felt strange. But surprisingly, what unlocked the exercise was asking ChatGPT to write a first draft based on what it knew about me. Reading what it generated created space for me to respond. Not with edits, but with presence. Soon after, I wrote my own version. I shared it with my coach. We reflected that while it captured my own perspective, it felt incomplete.
Not long ago, my aunt passed away. After the funeral, my parents called me. They spoke not about the sadness, but the beauty of the words shared about her. And then they said something that stayed with me: “Why do we only share these kinds of things after someone is gone? They should hear them while they’re still here.”
Back to the birthday weekend away with my friends now. Halfway through the weekend, I made a spontaneous announcement.
I would host my own funeral. A living one.
My friends were surprised, but after a moment of it sitting in, not surprised to hear that I would want to experiment with something like this.
A friend stepped in to facilitate. He split our group of twenty-five into smaller groups. Each group was handed post-it notes and pens and asked to write a eulogy for me. Not from prepared thoughts, but from spontaneous presence. No time to rehearse, only time to reflect and write.
While they wrote, he and I set up chairs for everyone outside beneath a wide patch of sky, with a beautiful view of rolling hills.
After about thirty minutes, everyone was invited into our makeshift space. Music was playing in the background. My partner and I sat at the front. And then, one by one, each group sent one person forward to read what they had written.
Some were funny. Some were tender. Some wrapped kindness in mischief and others unwrapped truths through tears. They spoke about curiosity, calm, and kindness. About presence over performance. One spoke about patience. Another about wonder. There was much laughter, and shared stories I had long forgotten.
As I sat there, quietly receiving their words spoken in past tense, I felt something unexpected.
I felt seen. Appreciated. Held. And also… surprised.
None of the eulogies focused on the aspects of life I spend the most time on. My work, my health, and my relationship. Areas that occupy much of my conscious living energy were barely mentioned. Instead, what surfaced were subtler qualities. How I show up in a conversation. The way I create space. How I listen. The lightness I bring, even unknowingly.
Afterwards, debriefing with a few close friends, I shared that observation. And they gently offered a reframe. Perhaps those domains of life I focus on so intensely aren’t ends in themselves. Perhaps they are means. Means to a more authentic self. Means to deeper connection. That the work isn't in being remembered for any one thing, but in being present with who I already am.
And perhaps friends are the ones who see that most clearly.
Family wasn’t there that weekend. Neither were professional colleagues. My partner didn’t speak. What was reflected back to me came from friendship alone. And there’s a particular honesty in that kind of mirror. It’s where nothing needs to be proven. Where the self can be witnessed without the scaffolding of achievement, responsibility or identity. I felt known in a way that words rarely allow. And what I heard, almost universally, were not just stories, but feelings. Unfiltered, unearned, freely given.
At the end of the ceremony, I stood and gave a brief, impromptu speech. No notes. No idea what I was going to say until I heard myself say it. That I am not just me. I am, in some quiet way, made up of every person here. Every strength, every quirk, every moment of laughter I offer to the world is borrowed or mirrored from someone I’ve loved. I spoke of how each of their reflections helped me see myself more clearly. Not as a static thing, but as a living dynamic being, shaped by others with every passing year.
I’m still integrating what happened that weekend. I’m still listening to what was said. And to what wasn’t. I walked away with a full heart and an open question. What are the things I chase now, that in the end may not matter? And what are the things that matter deeply already, but go unnoticed because they ask nothing in return?
I’ll likely do this again. Not as an event. But perhaps as a practice. A way to pause and ask. A way to make space for reflection not just from within, but through the lives I’ve touched and been touched by. Not to be praised, but to be mirrored.
There are truths about my life I can’t see alone.
And that is how I learned to be remembered.
