The Funeral That Shook Me
- Michael Drake
- Jun 9
- 4 min read
"How many funerals have you attended... and actually let change you?"
Be honest. We've all stood graveside, felt something crack open inside us, and then — within weeks, sometimes days — slipped right back into the routine. The busyness. The inbox. The noise. We let the moment pass because it's easier that way. I did it too. Until the one funeral I couldn't shake.
She was my godmother. And if you were lucky enough to know someone like her, you already understand what I'm about to say.
She was warmth in human form. The kind of person who remembered the small things — not because she was trying to impress you, but because she was genuinely interested in your life.
She asked questions that made you feel like you were the only person in the room. She laughed loudly and without apology. She gave generously without keeping score.
When she walked into a room, something shifted. You felt it. And the day she left this world, every person who loved her felt the absence in that same way — like the temperature in the room had dropped a few degrees and nobody could explain why.
I had attended funerals before. More than I'd like to count. And like most people, I'd stand there, feel the weight of it, say the right things, and then — quietly — let life pull me back. You tell yourself you'll call more. Hug tighter. Slow down. And then Monday arrives, and you don't.
But this one was different.
"It wasn't just the loss of her. It felt like the loss of something essential — a brutal reminder of how fragile life truly is. And as much as I hate to admit it, the thought that followed was deeply selfish: What if it had been me?"
What would the people I love do without me? Have I left a meaningful impact? If they gathered to celebrate my life tomorrow — what would they actually say? Would the room be full? Would the stories be good?
Those thoughts didn't leave when I walked out of that church. They followed me home. They sat with me at the dinner table. They kept me up at night — not with anxiety, but with something closer to urgency. A quiet alarm going off that I could no longer ignore.
My godmother didn't just leave a room when she died. She left a standard. A way of showing up for people. A reminder of what it looks like to make every person you encounter feel seen, heard and valued. That's not a small thing.
That's a legacy.
Here's the truth we're taught to avoid
Most of us have intellectualized death our whole lives. We know it's coming. We nod along when someone says "life is short." We share the quote. We double-tap the post. And then we go right back to living like we have unlimited time.
In The Paradox of a Mortal Mind, I call this the veil — the comfortable distance we keep between ourselves and the reality of our own mortality. We attend the funeral. We feel it for a moment. But feeling it and letting it change you are two entirely different things. Wake-up calls are everywhere. The tragedy is that most of us hit snooze.
"
Grief, when we allow it to, does something that comfort never can — it strips away everything that doesn't matter and leaves you standing face to face with what does.
— Michael Drake, The Paradox of a Mortal Mind
Core lesson
Mortality only matters when we stop intellectualizing it. Reading about it, talking about it, even agreeing with it — none of that moves the needle. What moves the needle is the moment it becomes personal. The empty chair at Christmas. The voice you'll never hear pick up the phone again. The funeral that stays with you long after everyone else has gone home.
My godmother's death taught me that a life well lived isn't measured in years or accomplishments. It's measured in the people who are devastated when you leave. She left a packed room behind — not because she was the loudest, but because she was the most present. That's the kind of life worth building.
This week's action
Think of someone in your life who, if you lost them tomorrow, would leave that kind of absence. The kind that changes a room.
Now ask yourself: Do they know how much they mean to you? Not assumed. Not implied. Actually told.
This week — reach out. Call, don't text. Say the thing you always mean to say but keep putting off. My godmother taught me that the people worth grieving are the people worth celebrating while they're still here.
Who would be devastated if you were gone tomorrow?
And more importantly — are you showing up for them in a way that earns that grief?
Sometimes the most important conversations start with a question we've been avoiding. This is one of them.
Ready to go deeper? The Paradox of a Mortal Mind shows you how to turn that urgency into a life you're proud of.
If you're ready to have the deeper conversation — about what you're building, who you're showing up for, and the life you actually want to be living — I'm opening a small number of 1:1 coaching spots. This is for the person who's done waiting for the right moment to start living with intention.
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