It would have been my brother-in-law and best friend Peter’s 48th birthday on Monday.

Peter died a minute ago—in 2017, in his sleep, from an undiagnosed heart condition called Loeffler endocarditis. I’ve written about Peter before—here and also in the chapter on Sadness in On Our Best Behavior. I’ve also talked about Peter a lot on the podcast. While I’d do anything to unwind his death, anything for one more face-to-face conversation, at this point I can recognize the gifts he’s given me in his passing. His death introduced me to my faith and affirmed my relationship with the universe: While he’s physically gone, I talk to him all the time through signs, synchronicities, and sometimes mediums. And I feel strongly guided by him as well. Peter always saw what I was capable of before I understood it myself. I still feel his hand on my shoulder, gently pushing me forward.

Every year, to honor Pete’s passing, I do a little bit of personal housekeeping that might strike you as morbid—but I believe it’s actually the most loving thing you can do for the people you love. In August, I go through a document that is shared with my husband and my brother and I update any critical information in the event I might unexpectedly die.

Let me explain.

My dad is a retired pulmonologist meaning that he spent a lot of weekends on-call, in and out of the emergency room and ICU, intubating patients and sitting with families who were experiencing days and nights the rest of us hope to never have. He also served as many patients’ primary care physician, tending to them throughout their lives, which means that he was frequently present at the end as well. We talked about the practice of medicine a lot over dinner and my dad could never get over how few of his patients prepared for the one eventuality of life: Their deaths. It was a rarity for him to encounter a patient, or a patient’s family, who had thought about what they wanted and planned accordingly. More often, people would look at him wild-eyed in the hospital room, sometimes furious that he had raised a subject that they’d prefer to ignore. And these are people who had death knocking at the door.

My mom loves to talk about her death: Her living will contains her wishes for every possibility, and she goes through her possessions relentlessly, not wanting to burden us with sorting through a lifetime’s worth of stuff after she dies. (While I appreciate the gesture, she could chill on this a little bit, as she went through our childhood artifacts relentlessly, too—I wouldn’t have minded her being a little more sentimental about my stuff.)

Even though my parents offered a readiness to discuss all of this as a model for us to follow, when Peter died—leaving us shocked and heartbroken—none of us were practically prepared, including him. It had never occurred to me that someone so young and so vital could suddenly be gone. This means I didn’t think something could happen to me either. Despite already being a mother to two young sons, Rob and I didn’t have a will or life insurance. On Ben and Peter’s side, Ben had no passwords, no record of accounts, no clue about how Peter would want to be honored or where his ashes should go.

In the aftermath of Peter’s death, I more or less moved into my brother and Peter’s apartment in New York City and quarterbacked the dissolution of Peter’s life. I am an overfunctioner already, but I was thrilled to serve—and to put off my own grief by staying busy with all the things that needed to be done. And there was a lot to do. Anyone who has gone through this process will tell you that one of the sharpest cruelties of the immediate aftermath of death is the endless paperwork.

My brother couldn’t eat or sleep, and so I tried to take care of him by canceling credit cards, trips, ordering death certificates, unwinding subscriptions, and thinking about anything that might arrive in the mail bearing Peter’s name. E-ZPass? You betcha. Gym memberships? No problem.

I also planned his service. This wasn’t easy: We didn’t know what Pete wanted nor did we have access to his passwords, email, or phone. So I figured it out as best as I could while Ben and Pete’s family were left to guess as to how best honor his life.

I learned a lot going through this process. And friends who had walked this path before me helped. So I’m hoping to help you, too. I’ve compiled some immediate to-dos for all of us below.

If you’re reading this, it means you’re still kicking: You’ve got time to get organized. Planning for your death might feel weird, but it is one of the most loving and selfless things you can do for the people you will leave behind…which hopefully won’t happen for 50 years. You want the people you love to be able to mourn without needing to hack into your email account. You don’t want your partner or siblings guessing where you might have bank accounts. Most importantly, you want to give your people the opportunity to honor you in the way you would most appreciate: Nobody wants to guess about that.

Below, you’ll find two things. The first is some suggestions for a Google document that you can fill out and share with your loved ones. The second are things that will practically come your way immediately after someone dies. I’m sure ChatGPT is a better resource than what I had back in 2017, so maybe look there as well. I’m sure I’m missing things. (And please comment below.)

If you don’t have life insurance or a will/trust set up, I highly, highly recommend both! (A trust ensures that your will does not end up in probate, which is helpful if you have younger kids.) I’d also recommend establishing a living will as part of the trust process, which directs your loved ones on the actions you’d like them to take if you become incapacitated.

Treat this as a type of meditation. As Joseph Campbell explains in The Power of Myth, “The conquest of the fear of death is the recovery of life's joy. One can experience an unconditional affirmation of life only when one has accepted death, not as contrary to life but as an aspect of life.” In our grief and death-phobic culture, these practical steps are one simple way to embrace inevitability—I think getting comfortable with my end has only dissipated my fear.

Take care out there.