This Halloween, I dressed up as a 4-H kid.
Starting in fourth grade, I raised a pig every year until I graduated high school. Fair week was our Super Bowl, a glorious week when all the farm kids rolled into the fairgrounds with their animals (and for those more talented than I, arts and crafts). We’d “show” our pigs in competitions that tested our training skills and our encyclopedic knowledge of things like, the “parts of a pig.” Yes, you read that correctly. Starting at age nine, I was memorizing all sorts of trivia about pigs. (I keep waiting for trivia night that uses this knowledge, but, surprisingly, it hasn't come up yet.)
After we showed off our hard work in the ring, we’d then sell our animals at auction.
My parents had a rule: half the money went into my college fund, and the other half funded my yearly school-clothes shopping spree at Walmart. I thought I was living large.
This was my world: farm kids doing farm kid stuff.
Wait, not everyone knows what 4-H is?
So when I texted a photo of my Halloween costume to a friend this morning and she replied, “What’s 4-H?”, I was perplexed. What’s 4-H? It never occurred to me that someone might not know. That probably explains some of the polite-but-confused smiles I got on Halloween when I announced, proudly, that I was a 4-H kid.
But as my small-town typing teacher used to say, “To assume makes an ass out of you and me.” (Small-town teachers have a way with words.)
Once I stopped laughing, I had fun telling my friend all about 4-H. It reminded me how fun it is to share parts of ourselves that don’t come up often. We each have these hidden chapters that shaped us long before we started our current careers or passions.
And that got me thinking about another topic we rarely talk about: death.
The Conversations We Don’t Have
When was the last time someone asked your thoughts on human composting? Or whether you believe people can send signs from the afterlife? Probably not at Sunday brunch.
Recently, my friends at the Near app played The Death Deck during a staff meeting. They told me they learned more about each other in one session than in months of working together. A Palliative Care conference in Canada handed out Death Decks at every table — and the room buzzed with deep, heartfelt conversations.
People want to talk about death, grief, and meaning. They just don’t have much practice. It’s like trying to discuss money or sex, awkward until you warm up. (Speaking of sex, I once sat next to a sexologist at a Death Over Drafts event, and we compared notes on how similar conversations about sex and death really are. Turns out: very.)
As a social worker, I spend my days walking into hard conversations. And as someone who goes to therapy weekly, I also know how it feels to sidestep a topic that feels too heavy to touch. But over and over, I’ve seen that when people finally do talk about what’s been quietly weighing on them, they almost always feel lighter.
So how do we make it easier for people to open up — about death, or any of life’s other “do-not-discuss” topics?
A Few Ways to Start the Conversation
1. Be curious.
Curiosity is the opposite of judgment. It tells people, “I’m interested in your story.” Genuine curiosity invites sharing and people feel good when someone wants to hear what they think.
2. Keep judgment out of it.
Raising a pig for auction isn’t for everyone. Neither is an open-casket funeral. But both deserve respect. Judgment shuts down connection faster than anything else.
3. Use silence.
Give people time to think and talk. When we’re discussing topics we rarely get asked about, we need space. Nod, stay present, and wait. The pause often invites something deeper.
4. Let humor in.
Moments of levity pop up naturally. Let them. Laughing during hard conversations releases endorphins and helps us self-regulate. A good belly laugh in the middle of a serious talk can be healing.
5. Take a soft approach.
Not everyone is ready to dive into a death chat. Try easing in: mention a movie with a death theme, share an article, or offer your own reflection first. People often respond once they know it’s safe.
What Matters Most
I believe everyone has a story worth sharing, even the small-town 4-H pig-raising chapters. When we approach one another with curiosity, compassion, and a little humor, we create space for connection.
And in the end, as the dying often remind us, it’s those connections that matter most.
Your Turn
I’d love to hear from you:
What’s one part of your life that doesn’t come up often? Something that shaped you, but people might not know about?
Hit reply or drop a comment below. I’ll be reading every one ( while wearing my 4-H ribbon). 🐷💚
And if you’d like a playful way to spark meaningful conversations, check out The Death Deck, a game that turns the “taboo” into talkable, one laugh and deep reflection at a time.