Hosting a Death Café: A Practical Guide

We’re all going to die. But nobody wants to talk about it.

That’s not really true. Americans, for example, seem to resist discussing mortality as a culture.

But me? I’ve loved talking about death for as long as I can remember. I’ve discovered, however, that not everyone is as comfortable as I am addressing the topic.

And yet, there is a deep need for safe places to share stories, ask questions, and express concerns. Where are these safe places?

Enter Death Café.

Death Café is a global movement that began in London in 2011, founded by Jon Underwood and inspired by the ideas of Swiss sociologist Bernard Crettaz, who had hosted “Cafés Mortels” to encourage open conversations about death. The concept is simple: people gather, often in informal settings like cafés, community centers, or online, to discuss death and dying over tea and cake. It is designed to be a collective (whole-group) conversation. Death Café isn’t therapy, but community.

Traditionally, a Death Café is not facilitated in the typical sense (no agenda, no teaching, no guided discussion), but a space where people can talk openly about death, wherever the conversation naturally goes. That said, the host’s role is still crucial, not to lead, but to hold the space to:

·       Welcome everyone, introduce the concept and ground rules (confidentiality, respect, no advice-giving or proselytizing).

·       Help the conversation flow if it stalls.

·       Ensure everyone feels safe and heard.

Note: People should be sitting around a table or in a circle for the best results.

Core Ground Rules/Guidelines:

1.     Confidentiality: “What’s shared here stays here.” People can talk about what they learned or felt, but not who said what.

2.     Listening with presence: “We listen to understand, not to respond.” Encourage silence and deep listening. Sometimes the most supportive response is simply presence.

3.     No advice, fixing, or rescuing: “We’re not here to solve or comfort away anyone’s pain, only to witness it.” You can remind people that grief, fear, and wonder don’t need solutions. They need space.

4.     Speak from the ‘I’: “Speak from your own experience, not in generalities or theories.” This keeps the tone intimate and authentic.

5.     Respect all perspectives: “Everyone’s beliefs, stories, and experiences are welcome, even if they differ from our own.” No need to agree or debate.

6.     Equal voice, gentle timing: “Let’s give everyone who wants to speak the chance to do so.” You can softly intervene if someone’s taking a lot of airtime by saying: “Let’s pause here so others can share as well.”

7.     Tea and cake spirit: This one’s part of the Death Café ethos. It’s about being human together, even amid heavy topics. This is a place for warmth, curiosity, and connection, not therapy or judgment.

Handling When People Respond to Others’ Grief:

·       This will definitely happen, and how you respond sets the tone. If someone starts offering advice or trying to fix, you can gently interject with warmth: “That’s a really kind instinct, wanting to help. Let’s just remember we’re here mainly to listen and share, rather than to give advice.”

Or…

·       “It’s beautiful to want to support each other. Maybe let’s just hold space for what’s been shared, without needing to make it better.”

You’re not shaming them, just guiding them back to the ground rules.  

If someone gets emotional or cries:

·       Let it be. Silence and tissues are enough.

·       You can simply say: “Take your time. We’re with you.”

·       Then move gently on when it feels right.

If things get very intense or the energy dips:

·       You can bring a soft reset by saying, “Let’s all take a deep breath together.”

·       Or… “Would anyone like to share something that feels alive for them right now, maybe a reflection or question that’s come up?”

If you’ve never moderated a Death Café and are not sure where to begin, you could share a personal story, experience, or thought to model openness and vulnerability in a grounded way. can suggest a few questions people sometimes reflect on, and remind them that there is no right or wrong way to share. Here are a few prompts:

·       If you could know the exact day of your death, would you want to? Why or why not?

·       Is there such a thing as a “good death”? What would that look like to you?

·       What do you hope people will remember about you?

·       Do you think our stories live on after us in the people we’ve touched?

·       If there were no death, how would life be different? Would it lose something important?

·       Do you believe we get to “meet again” with loved ones after death, or is the legacy they leave enough?

·       If life is like a book, do you think the ending matters most, or the chapters along the way?

·       What role does humor play in how we face mortality? Can laughter soften the fear of death?

·       If you could imagine heaven or an afterlife, what might it look like?

A closing touch, you might want to end by gathering people back together for a short reflection:

·       “What are you taking with you from today’s conversation?”

·       “What felt meaningful or surprising?”

Then thank everyone for their courage and presence.

How to Start a Conversation about Mortality

“How old will I be when I die?” I once asked a Quija board that my parents had stored in the basement when I was in junior high. This followed by, “How will I die?”

I watched my fingers involuntarily shift a pointer amongst the numbers and letters on the board until I got my answer. The answer, though disturbing, didn’t faze me much because the end seemed an eternity away. I was to die of brain damage at the age of 53.

A few years later, when I placed my trust in the Creator instead of the Quija board, I “renounced” my former “supernatural” activities which included Kresgin’s ESP, following my daily Horoscope, playing “Light as a Feather” during grade school sleepovers, telling ghost stories, and participating in child-invented séances. So far, so good.

Though I repented of my “evil” doings, the Quija board number that supposedly marked the end of my mortality remained a tiny voice in my head. As ridiculous as it sounds, I wasn't totally at peace until the clock struck midnight, and I entered year 54 of my life.. Be that as it may, I have no interest in seeing the movie, Quija: Origin of Evil, even though Rotten Tomatoes gives it an 84% which is rare for a horror movie.

In the meantime, I think there is value in “living like you were dying,” as Tim McGraw’s song suggests. Love deeper, speak sweeter, forgive, become the friend a friend would like to have, read the “Good Book,” go sky-diving and Rocky-Mountain climbing, etc., etc.  But many people don’t think that way until they face their mortality. And some never think that way.

I recall a moment while assisting at meal-time in a long-term care community.  I noticed a teary-eyed woman seated at a table with three friends. I sat down beside her and asked what was wrong.

“Everything,” she replied.

“Do you not feel well? Are you lonely?” I probed, putting my arm around her.

“I’m always lonely,” she cried.

I then noticed the loving efforts made by her three table-mates to console and cheer her. I began asking her about her life.

“I remember everything,” she declared.

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” I probed.

“None of it will ever happen again,” she lamented.

In an effort to provide a more helpful framework for her to review her life, I informed her about Dr. Seuss’s wisdom, “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.” I suggested she think of her mind as a sanctuary, reliving the memories with gratitude. It seemed logical to me that one could draw comfort from drawing from such a well of beauty and meaning whenever one saw fit.

“You’re preparing me for death,” she chided, resisting my efforts to coach her through this important chapter in her process of life resolution.

Though I hadn’t thought of it that way initially, she was right. I was preparing her for death, albeit an exercise in futility. I am learning much by watching others face or avoid their mortality. Perhaps she felt I was patronizing her in my efforts to encourage her. She is one of multitudes who struggle toward mastering what developmental psychologist, Erik Erikson calls the Ego Integrity vs. Integrity “Wisdom” stage of older adulthood.

Gerontocrats are those who face aging with grace, who make peace with the past, who continue to be grateful for what they have and to embrace life. They have ego integrity. Gerontophobes are those who dread and despise the aging process and fear facing the end of life. Their lives are filled with more regret than gratitude. When they don’t resolve the past, they live with despair.

My oldest daughter Joanna once shared with her family and closest friends, a memoir of her college years in Oregon. Though only 23 at the time, she had the emotional tools to deal with loss. She worked through resolution in short order as she chose the difficult task of saying good-bye to her Kansas family and friends before she moved to Germany to be with the love of her life.

“It is all beginning to hit me – that my life is no longer as I once knew it and that I can never go back to the past and relive anything. It’s moments like tonight that remind me that I need to sort out all that has happened in this time and to feel it all,” were the poignant words my daughter poured out in the height of her emotions.

So, how do we open the door of conversation with our elders about this elephant in the room called mortality? My boss recently blurted out the following question to me and a former colleague: “If the good Lord were to call you home today, would you be ready?” Though it appeared out of nowhere, it led to a very helpful conversation, as I had been struggling with a disturbing dream about the afterlife that I hadn’t yet worked through.

That question was recently used in an assignment with some of my coworkers who work at the two retirement communities I serve. One of my coworkers felt the assignment slightly awkward, wondering if it might be more natural for the opportunity to just present itself as what happened with me and the weeping woman. I share her sentiment, but I also discovered that I welcomed the question, random as it was when handed to me by my boss. We never know who is waiting for us to make the first move in starting what might otherwise be an uncomfortable topic to tackle.

And why not? Our mortality is one thing we all have in common.

So, how do we start a conversation about our mortality? Start from a place of love, take the plunge, and let the chips fall where they may. Though your words may get all scrambled up, love will take care of the rest.