One of the more memorable lines in my late father’s estate documents read:

“Negotiate. Be nice to each other, or I will haunt you.”

Reader, we loved the sentiment. The logistics? Less so.

Estate planning is one of those life tasks many of us mean to do — and then quietly avoid for years. Not because we’re irresponsible. Because we’re human. It can feel morbid, overwhelming, confusing, or like something you’ll “get to eventually.” But estate planning isn’t really about death. It’s about care; about making life easier for the people you love during one of the hardest moments they’ll experience.

I had a conversation with Andreea Olteanu, an estate attorney with Steward, a modern estate planning firm that thoughtfully blends smart technology with actual human guidance. She said something that really stuck with me: “The greatest gift you can leave behind isn’t the money. It’s direction.” 

If you’ve been putting this off, you are very much not alone. Here’s a place to start.

First: A Few Misconceptions to Toss Out

“Estate planning is only for wealthy people.”
Nope. Your “estate” is simply anything you own — a home, a bank account, photos, a car, a beloved heirloom, even digital assets. Without clear instructions, the law decides what happens to those things. That process can be time-consuming, expensive, and emotionally draining for the people left behind.

“I’m too young to worry about this.”
Life has a way of reminding us that timing isn’t always predictable. Estate planning is best done before it becomes urgent — when you’re calm, healthy, and thinking clearly.

“I’ll get to it later.”
Maybe. But later has a way of becoming…much later. Even spending an hour thinking through the basics is meaningful progress.

Where to Start (Without Spiraling)

Estate planning can feel huge, but the first step is surprisingly simple:

Think about your people.
Who would make decisions if you couldn’t?
Who would take care of your kids?
Who should receive certain belongings or financial assets?

A helpful exercise is to jot down answers to a few guiding questions:

• What are my priorities for my family if something happens to me?
• Who do I trust to manage money or make healthcare decisions?
• Are there sentimental items I want to pass to specific people?
• Are there charities or causes I want to support?

The Steward estate planning team recommends thinking through key roles — such as guardians for children, trustees to manage finances, and people who can step in for medical or financial decisions — before drafting documents. 

You don’t need every answer right away. But beginning the conversation matters.

The Emotional Blockers (Because They’re Real)

If you’ve been avoiding estate planning, you’re not lazy. You’re human. Common emotional roadblocks include:

Fear of jinxing something
Talking about death can feel like tempting fate.

Decision fatigue
Choosing guardians, trustees, or beneficiaries can feel like too much responsibility.

Family dynamics
Blended families, sibling relationships, or complicated histories can make decisions feel overwhelming. One helpful reframing: estate planning isn’t about predicting the future. It’s about reducing confusion if something happens. Or, as Olteanu puts it, “Think about what you can do to make things easier for the people you love.” 

Don’t Forget Your Digital Life

Our lives now exist partly online — and those assets often get overlooked. Your estate plan should account for:

• Passwords and account access
• Online banking and investments
• Photos stored in cloud services
• Cryptocurrency holdings
• Social media accounts

Even a simple password manager or written digital access plan can prevent enormous headaches for your family later.

A Simple Estate Planning Framework

If the process feels intimidating, break it into manageable steps:

Identify key people
Who will handle financial decisions, healthcare decisions, or guardianship for children?

Take inventory
List accounts, insurance policies, property, and digital assets.

Clarify your wishes
Who should receive what? Are there specific heirlooms or charitable gifts?

Create legal documents
Typically this includes a will, powers of attorney, healthcare directives, and sometimes a trust.

Revisit periodically
Review every few years or after major life changes.

The “Get Your Act Together” Checklist

1. Choose a healthcare decision-maker
   
2. Choose a financial power of attorney
   
3. Name guardians for minor children
   
4. List key accounts and assets
   
5. Decide how belongings should be distributed
   
6. Plan for digital accounts and password
7. Create or update your will or trust
   
8. Review your plan every 3–5 years

This isn’t about perfection. It’s about clarity.

One Last Thought

Estate planning isn’t about preparing for the worst. It’s about taking care of the people you love — while you can. And once you start, you may find something surprising: the process often feels far less overwhelming than you imagined.

Just don’t leave instructions that say “negotiate and be nice to each other.” Trust me on that one.

Ready to Make This Easier?

If estate planning has been sitting quietly on your to-do list for years, you are far from alone. Modern Loss recently partnered with Steward, an estate planning platform that combines guided technology with experienced estate attorneys who help you think through the decisions that actually matter. Their process is designed to make a complicated topic feel far more manageable.

Modern Loss readers can explore Steward and receive a community discount here.

In partnership with Steward.

The post Estate Planning for the Griefy, Busy, Avoidant, and Human appeared first on Modern Loss.

Romy Reiner with her parents, Rob and Michele (Instagram)

Like so many of us, I haven’t stopped thinking about Rob and Michelle Reiner since the news broke. But some details demand more than acknowledgment: that she was the one who found them. That she was just twenty-seven. Those facts rose into a howl I felt obligated to answer. I was twenty-seven when I found my mother murdered.

The day after, I imagined scuff marks on my eyeballs. I checked the mirror, studying my irises. Nothing. And also everything. You don’t see something like that without damaging your sight.

A week later, I was laughing—drunk at my mother’s wake—watching my friend put on a girl’s jacket and perform Chris Farley’s fat guy in a little coat in front of a bonfire. My brother and my grandmother were swing dancing, their faces locked in matching expressions of joy and disbelief, doing a thing they never imagined they’d do, and never would again. Another friend picked up my dad’s guitar and started singing “Closer to Fine.” I took the high harmony, she took the low, the way we used to in high school.

Anyone driving past that backyard bacchanal would’ve thought we were a pack of gluttonous lucky ducks. They wouldn’t have known that hours earlier, my brother had to peel me off my mother’s coffin because it had finally sunk in that she was inside it. They wouldn’t have known that my grandmother—pupils narrowed to pinpricks—had balled her fists and marched up to a stranger at the funeral, ready to punch his lights out after someone mistakenly whispered that he was The Prick Who’d Fired Debbie—the man she believed set off the spiral of drinking and despair that left my mother vulnerable to the man who moved into her home and eventually killed her.

The next morning, I woke up obliterated by a hangover. Feverish, head pounding, I stumbled into the living room and found my father passed out on the couch. It was July. The air was hot and stagnant. I stood there alone with him—the one who was left. The one who had cut me to the core my entire life and also taught me how to laugh, tell stories, and sing. The one my mother had always been there to help me make sense of.

My father stirred on the couch and we looked at each other. He squinted and said, “I lost a contact.” I poured solution into a lens case and got on my knees, combing the carpet. After I found it, we drank water. He hugged me goodbye, promising to see me later. I don’t remember what we said, but I imagine he asked into my hair, Are you going to be alright, darlin’? And I said yes, because I always had to be. When he left, I thought only one thing: I want it to be years from now.

The author one year after her mother’s murder. She was not “fine.” (Photo courtesy of Erin McReynolds)

Romy Reiner and I couldn’t have lived more different lives. Her parents were still married. She wasn’t left alone night after night as a child, teaching herself how to sleep through fear. She didn’t grow up managing adult chaos before she could legally drive. But perhaps, like me, she carried a bone-deep knowing that something devastating was coming. A sense that a seed had been planted long ago, buried in the family skin, that might one day break the surface.

When that kind of knowing comes true, it can feel mystical. I mistook it for supernatural ability. Purely by instinct, not reason, I believed that if I seduced my mother’s mortician, it might bring her back to life. I didn’t think this so much as feel compelled by it. Anyway, it didn’t work.

I was twenty-seven when I found my mother murdered, and I assigned meaning to that, too—the whole 27 Club mythology. Later, I learned it marked the beginning of a Saturn return: a three-year passage where adolescence burns off and adulthood is forged. A pressure cooker that tests who you are and deepens who you’re becoming.

At the end of that passage came the trial. I was more unhinged then than I had been in the immediate aftermath of the murder. I won’t say much more about it—it wasn’t my brother on trial, but a near-stranger. Romy, on the other hand, once called her brother her best friend. That is a different universe of grief.

Romy Reiner and I couldn’t have lived more different lives…But perhaps, like me, she carried a bone-deep knowing that something devastating was coming.

Still, my own grief is tangled with loving someone volatile and tormented, someone I feared might be at the center of a catastrophe that would ruin my life. That was my mother. So while it’s not the same, I can imagine what Romy is facing. And I hope she has the strength to endure it. I suspect she does.

The loneliest moment comes after the hubbub fades—after the funeral, after the casseroles stop arriving. When it’s just you and the road ahead. That’s when writers found me. Joan Didion taught me that you don’t need matching circumstances to feel seen. The poet undertaker Thomas Lynch made it possible to stand inside death without flinching. Anne Lamott gave me this: Grief ends up giving you the two best things: softness and illumination.

And one day, you get your wish. It is years from now. You look in the mirror and see what’s been etched into you: a reverence for laughter and rage alike, a lingering mysticism, a fierce capacity for meaning, and a tenderness that makes you intense, off-beat, too much, and exquisitely alive. Qualities that made the kind of life they would have wanted for you.

Erin McReynolds is a writer whose essays have appeared in The Sun, Kenyon Review Online, New Letters, and elsewhere, and were included as notables in Best American Essays 2020 and 2024. She writes and cartoons at www.traumafordummies.com.

The post Dear Romy Reiner, One Day it Will be Years From Now appeared first on Modern Loss.

Aubrey Plaza y Maisy Stella in ‘My Old Ass’

Odio darle consejos a la gente que atraviesa un duelo, de hecho mi consejo favorito es para los que no están en duelo: Dejen de dar consejos. Aunque esta vez, con el derecho que pertenecer a este horroroso club me otorga, quisiera decirles lo que cualquiera que ha perdido a alguien necesita escuchar: Si de verdad hubiera estado en tus manos, seguirían aquí… Es así de simple y complejo.

Y de todas formas fantaseamos con la idea de haberlo sabido, de encontrar alguna fórmula mágica que pudiera cambiar las cosas. Y no hay mejor forma de explorar universos alternativos que la ficción.

Odio los “hubieras”, definitivamente están entre mis peores pesadillas. Trato de evitarlos a toda costa, a veces de forma temeraria, y sé que ese impulso colorea mi forma de vivir con un sentido de urgencia difícil de igualar, casi imposible de comprender para otros que no han tenido las mismas experiencias. Pero he aprendido a tener paciencia, porque es cierto que algunas cosas maravillosas toman su tiempo. La realidad es que nunca sabré a ciencia cierta si este sentido de urgencia es realmente mío o del duelo que me conforma. Quizás somos ambos un todo indiscernible, porque por mucho que haya querido escaparme de él, me ha acompañado desde que era casi una niña, y aunque no me define, es parte de lo que soy.

El punto es que rara vez me trago un “te quiero”. Y si no te lo digo con esas palabras me aseguro de demostrártelo de todas las formas posibles, porque sin importar lo que pase mañana, no soporto un “y si hubiera…”.

Pero la profundidad del duelo que derrumba y desordena todo lo que creías saber de la vida, te arroja al más imposible de los “hubieras”. Inevitable y devastador, la peor clase de pensamiento mágico. Y uno al que todos los que hemos perdido a alguien nos hemos acercado: Podrías haberlos salvado, si tan solo hubieras hecho una, o dos, tres o quizás doce cosas de forma distinta. De pronto parece que tuviéramos superpoderes místicos. La culpa del sobreviviente y la ilusión de control abren las puertas a ese universo alternativo, uno donde podrías haber evitado perderlos, podrías evitar este dolor.

“Mi yo del futuro” es una visión contemporánea del viaje en el tiempo, donde Elliott (Aubrey Plaza), se encuentra con su yo adolescente (Maisy Stella). Y creo que cualquier treintañera puede identificarse con lo realista de esta confrontación. Todas nos hemos preguntado qué nos diríamos…¿Nos convertimos en lo que soñábamos? (No tienes idea lo que la vida nos tiene preparado, maravilloso y mágico y dolorosamente devastador, por tratar de nombrarlo). La sensación de celos que despierta nuestra propia ingenuidad, el espacio previo de no saber, la antesala al dolor… Y Aubrey la interpreta con vulnerabilidad, misterio y delicioso humor negro.

Parece que el propósito central de su yo del futuro es evitar que conozca a alguien a toda costa. Con mi propia experiencia sobre trauma y contar historias, fue clarísimo que era justo eso lo que estaba tratando de eludir, su propio trauma. Pero no es lo que imaginamos.

Chad es encantador, un adolescente del que le es imposible alejarse. Y la verdad es que no muestra ninguna señal de peligro, es taaan lindo, deberían estar juntos, hacen muy buena… ¡Ah! De pronto caigo en cuenta, como balde de agua fría. Sé exactamente a dónde va esto. Se siente incómodamente familiar. Quiere evitarlo porque ES traumático, porque le cambió la vida. El misterio y humor negro y el No-te-puedo-decir-exactamente-si-tenemos-o-no-tenemos-lo-que-queríamos-porque-en-parte-sí-y-en-parte-no, viene del trauma de perder a alguien que amas, de las formas que a veces tratamos de evitar el amor por su inevitable lazo con el duelo. Pero no importa lo mucho que intentemos cambiarlo, al final no existe uno sin el otro.

Alejandra y Pablo en Tequesquitengo, Morelos, junio 2017

Yo perdí a uno de los grandes amores de mi vida. Porque así es como Pablo merece ser recordado en mi historia, en nuestra historia. No es un “ex-novio”, como a alguna gente imprudente le ha llamado, como si la muerte diluyera el lazo. Me topé con lo difícil que es, que aparentemente las etiquetas no alcancen para justificar el dolor que cargamos, para nombrar un amor así, para darle su merecido espacio en el infinito.

Perder a alguien de esa manera te deja con muy pocas formas tangibles de medirlo. Parece que es reemplazable porque no es un lazo de sangre y no estaban casados. Tratamos de entender el amor con definiciones bastante limitadas para algo tan incomprensible, algo que es mucho más grande que nosotros y que nadie ha logrado encapsular.                                   

Él se merece la definición poética. Yo me merezco poder nombrar este amor.                  

Pero hoy sé que es uno de los grandes amores de mi vida, porque eso es justo para él, pero ser uno de ellos, la posibilidad de más, es justo para el amor. Es justo para mí. Pablo me ha enseñado todo el amor del que soy capaz, incluso dentro del duelo más devastador.

Y de todas formas tengo que confesar que aunque haya sido por un breve momento de  ¿Cómo voy a sobrevivir esto?, me he preguntado cómo hubiera sido mi vida si no hubiera conocido a Pablo. Y es que esa es la diferencia con el amor (aparentemente reemplazable) romántico. Es un amor que elegimos. Y me gusta que aunque sea por un breve momento de ciencia ficción, la película nos permita explorar el dilema.

¿Qué hubiera pasado si a mi yo adolescente no le hubiera cautivado su rebeldía e irreverencia, su impulsividad, su incomparable inteligencia? ¿Si nunca hubiéramos hecho equipo en la alberca, yo sobre sus hombros, en esas primeras interacciones cargadas de sexualidad que nos hacían darnos cuenta de que el otro nos gustaba? ¿Si no hubiéramos descubierto qué buen equipo hacíamos, la adrenalina de ganar juntos? ¿Qué hubiera pasado si nunca nos hubiéramos reencontrado, enamorado, planeado construir una vida?…

Percy Hynes White y Maisy Stella (foto cortesía de Prime)

Lo que me gusta de esta exploración es que nos recuerda las conexiones inevitables, esas que tenemos con la gente que escogemos, aunque no sepamos exactamente en qué momento se volvieron inminentes. Hay algunos encuentros que son inexplicables, e incluso si tu yo de treinta y tantos trata de decirte que no… Algunas cosas están predestinadas.

La verdad es que no lo cambiaría. No evitaría amar a Pablo. Es una de las cosas que con más facilidad se me han dado en la vida. Y sé que de esa forma elijo abrirme una vida de evitar los “hubieras” y abrazar los “¿por qué no?”.

Una vida llena de amor, llena de riesgo, de sorpresa y aventura. Justo como a Pablo le gustaría. Pero sobre todo, exactamente cómo quiero vivir.

P.D. ¡Feliz cumpleaños, chang! Te amo. Donde quiera que estés.

Alejandra Redondo es una actriz mexicana, escritora, y cofundadora del No Estás Solo Club.

Lee la versión en español aquí.

The post Lo que “Mi yo del futuro” quiere que sepas sobre los “hubieras”, el amor y el duelo. appeared first on Modern Loss.

Anthony (left) and his partner, Coulter

I like holidays as much as the next person, but Pride Month is my favorite. Every year as June rolls around, I get excited for our moment. And why wouldn’t I? First, we get an entire month of endless ways to celebrate, from big and splashy marches to small block parties to welcoming and celebratory rainbows on every corner. We also get a chance to come together as a community: a small (but loud!), oppressed group of resilient humans that had to fight hard for every right and recognition we have. 

But this Pride hits differently. Three months ago, my boyfriend and partner, Coulter, died suddenly and unexpectedly by suicide. I am deep in grief. When  the rainbow flags went up across NYC, their bright colors felt dimmer to me. I’m grappling with what my life has now become – emptier, lonelier, and forever changed.  

Coulter was a beautiful soul, a chatterbox, a kind person, and, most importantly, my biggest champion. We loved each other with fierce pride and passion. We supported each other, we honored each other, and we knew that down the line, we’d choose to take advantage of the right to equal marriage that our community fought so passionately for.

Grief is an invisible companion—for many, and for me. Beyond the daily work of holding it together, there are quiet frictions that wear me down. I give the same practiced answer to “How are you?” I zone out mid-conversation when a memory crashes in. I cry in line at CVS when “Can’t Fight the Moonlight” plays on the speakers. I fake a smile when someone makes a joke about suicide, or when I scroll past a dumb meme I would’ve sent to Coulter. Most of this goes unseen, but I still feel the pressure to smooth it over—for others’ comfort, not mine. The empath in me is exhausted, always working overtime.

These daily little things add up to making me want to shrink my grief to make it easier for the rest of the world to handle. In some ways, it reminds me of what I did when I was younger and in the closet. I made pieces of myself smaller so the rest of the world can digest and understand me. I hid parts of myself to make things nice. I was stuck in my pain and suffering to make others comfortable.

These daily little things add up to making me want to shrink my grief to make it easier for the rest of the world to handle. In some ways, it reminds me of what I did when I was younger and in the closet. I made pieces of myself smaller so the rest of the world can digest and understand me.

I haven’t been quiet or shy about my sexuality in decades. I fight to be open and proud about who I am, and I won’t make any part of myself small. Our generation stands on the shoulders of the ancestors who did have to grieve in private. Historical pictures of “two close friends” dating as far back as ancient Egypt have been misunderstood by straight historians. An entire generation of men was lost in the AIDS crisis, and so many of their lovers, partners, and friends had to quietly mourn and hide their heartbreak from the rest of the world.

Pride Month has reminded me that I can’t hide who I am or who I love–-and that I won’t hide my grief, either. Our community is built on a bedrock of resiliency. We get knocked down, and we throw bricks back. This year, I am channeling that resiliency hard as I mourn out loud. 

This Pride Month, I’m learning that being proud also means being unafraid to show the love and loss that shaped me—and to let others see the whole, tender truth of who I am. And that’s someone who is proud of Coulter, proud of the life we built. proud of the love we shared. He made me a better human, and his life mattered. In the spirit of pride this year, I will continue to grieve openly, mourn for the man I lost, and face the reality that his death has left behind.

If you’re grieving someone, I hope you grieve out loud with me. And if you know someone in the throes of grief, mourn with them in whichever way they might need. Ask them stories about the person they lost. Celebrate their life. And honor their story. 

Anthony Mercurio is a political strategist, fundraiser, and LGBTQ+ advocate based in New York, NY. He lost his partner to suicide in March, 2025. 

The post Grieving Out Proud appeared first on Modern Loss.

Mom died in May, 2014. Nine years later, so did my dad –my anchor and confidante. Both deaths were unexpected so perhaps much less expected was the anger that accompanied them. It’s not a comfortable feeling. But it is a natural part of the grieving process; your mind and body’s way of saying I deserved better. Which you did.

If you’re angry, too in the wake of a deep loss, here are four thing I learned from my own experience:

1. Why Anger Shows Up in Grief

We have been told anger is a negative sentiment. But when we’re mourning someone, our emotions aren’t neat and polite. Anger in grief represents emotional responses to a deep rupture in our sense of attachment, safety, and fairness. It’s a powerful signal that something essential has been lost or violated. 

2. Anger and Love Coexist

My mom felt slightly unwell on her way to vacation to Kashmir with ad, ended up in the hospital for a checkup, and died while I was mid-air heading to New Delhi. I went straight from my 16-hour flight to the hospital morgue, where I stared at her body wrapped up in a lavender sheet. 

Anger. How could you not wait for me? Anger. How could you leave Papa? You were barely 65! Anger. But there are so many things we left unsaid. It was confusing to see the tenderness of love sit right next to the sharpness of anger. I was angry at the loss of control, the change in our family dynamic, and the injustice of This shouldn’t have happened.

3. Anger Extends to the People Around You

Extended family members making certain comments about my mom’s last rites enraged me. The greed in people’s eyes as they imagined scooping out the silver and Swarovski and haggle over who would receive her French chiffon sarees, now that the lady of the house was gone, made me furious.

I raged at medical systems—how could they let Mom slip away so unexpectedly. I was distrustful of the caregivers and flat-out angry at God. The juxtaposition here was between outward fury and internal fragility. 

In losing my father, I lost a part of identity, my connection to the land of my ancestors, and my safe space in this world. My husband and I had seen him in April 2023. He was doing fine in the way that many people in their 70s are. When the doctor called us one month later and gave us three days to say goodbye to him, I found myself torn between anger and prayers. It made me so angry – not to mention wondering why he had to die when so many terrible human beings seem to survive for so long.

I noticed a difference in my anger after his death. It felt different while I performed my father’s last rites with my brother, when I commuted to another city where now my father-in-law was in the ICU, then eventually attended my father-in-law’s cremation. Most of this new anger has come from unresolved relationships and betrayal of trust by a few whom I held closest. When people close to you ghost or withdraw while you’re grieving, it can stir up a very specific kind of anger—one rooted in abandonment, confusion, and emotional betrayal. I saw how quickly so many extended family members forgot about my parents, my brother, and me. It made me feel like I was grieving multiple disappearances at once.

As painful as this was, eventually, it helped me to identify the ones who did have the capacity to stand beside me.

4. Anger Can Help You Draw Boundaries

I have harnessed my anger to gain clarity and accept that not everyone you are related to deserves your time or love; not every friendship lasts forever; and your healing is your responsibility. I’ve also become more attuned to the language of avoidance—silence, platitudes, distraction. 

Being an adult orphan has taught me the stark but powerful lesson that aside from your parents, no one will likely ever put their life on hold for you. Be okay with not always being available or accessible to everybody and learn to take care of yourself.

Sweta Vikram is an Ayurvedic Doctor, grief-informed wellness expert, and author of 14 books.

The post 4 Ways That Grief Rage Taught Me About Self-Preservation and Healing appeared first on Modern Loss.