The Hidden Cost of Dying

Death, they say, is the great equaliser.
But have you tried dying lately?
It’s expensive.
Emotionally. Financially. Logistically. Existentially.
And not just for the person doing the dying, but for everyone orbiting the event.

We don’t talk about it much.
We whisper about grief.
We tiptoe around funeral costs.
We nod solemnly at “end-of-life planning” as if it’s just a spreadsheet and a sturdy will.

But dying is messy.
And the costs are layered.
So let’s spiral into them.

Let’s start with the obvious:
Dying costs money.

Funerals, coffins, cremations, burial plots, flowers, catering, paperwork, probate, legal fees, estate wrangling, death certificates, and the occasional “optional” dove release.

Even the cheapest send-off comes with a price tag.
And the industry? It’s not exactly known for transparency.

There’s a strange irony in it:
You spend your life trying to live well, and then you die, and suddenly your loved ones are comparing urn prices on a Tuesday afternoon, wondering if the “eco” option is a bit too cardboard.

It’s not just grief.
It’s admin grief.

Here’s a fun fact:
You can’t just die.
You have to be processed.

There are forms.
There are registrations.
There are calls to banks, pension providers, HMRC, and that one subscription service you forgot to cancel.

And if you’re the one left behind?
You become a part-time administrator of someone else’s absence.

It’s exhausting.
It’s surreal.
And it’s rarely acknowledged.

We talk about “closure.”
But what we often mean is “I finally got through to the probate office.”

Grief is not tidy.
It doesn’t follow a five-stage model like a well-behaved PowerPoint.
It’s chaotic.
It’s contradictory.
It’s full of guilt, relief, rage, longing, numbness, and the occasional inappropriate laugh at a wake.

And yet, we’re expected to grieve politely.
To take a few days off work.
To “move on.”
To not make others uncomfortable.

But grief is a long-haul flight with no clear destination.
And the emotional cost of dying, especially when it’s sudden, complicated, or culturally taboo, is often paid in silence.

Before the dying, there’s the decline.
And that comes with its own economy.

Who’s doing the caring?
Who’s taking time off work?
Who’s navigating the NHS, the care home, the hospice, the medications, the emotional labour?

Often, it’s women.
Often, it’s unpaid.
Often, it’s invisible.

And the emotional toll?
It’s cumulative.
It’s relational.
It’s the kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix.

We talk about “supporting carers.”
But what we often mean is “hoping they don’t burn out before the funeral.”

We live in a death-avoidant culture.
We sanitise it.
We euphemise it.
We outsource it.

We say “passed away” instead of “died.”
We say “celebration of life” instead of “funeral.”
We say “they’re in a better place” instead of “I miss them and it hurts.”

And so, when death arrives, we’re emotionally underprepared.
We don’t know how to sit with it.
We don’t know how to talk about it.
We don’t know how to hold each other through it.

Death becomes a logistical event, not a relational one.

Let’s play with a reframe.
What if dying wasn’t just an individual exit, but a communal transition?

What if we saw death as a relational moment, one that invites care, reflection, ritual, and meaning?

What if we planned not just the paperwork, but the emotional scaffolding?

What if we asked:

• Who needs support?
• What stories need telling?
• What rhythms of grief feel nourishing?

Because dying isn’t just about the person who dies.
It’s about the ecosystem around them.

And maybe the hidden cost of dying is that we’ve forgotten how to do it together.

Start the conversation before it’s urgent.
What does a good death look like? What matters most?

Build emotional scaffolds.
Who will hold the grief? Who will hold the logistics? Who will hold you?

Make space for ritual.
Not just the funeral, but the remembering, the storytelling, the ongoing connection.

Honour the carers.
Name their labour. Support their rest. Validate their grief.

These aren’t solutions.
They’re invitations to co-hold the weight.

Dying isn’t just an ending.
It’s a portal.
To grief. To memory. To meaning. To the community.

And yes, it’s costly.
But maybe the real cost isn’t financial.
It’s the cost of disconnection.
Of trying to do it all alone.
Of pretending it’s just paperwork and flowers.

So, let’s reframe.
Let’s reclaim.
Let’s make dying a practice of careful togetherness.

Because the end of a life should never mean the end of love.

Explore more with us:

• Browse Spiralmore collections
• Read our Informal Blog for relaxed insights
• Discover Deconvolution and see what’s happening
• Visit Gwenin for a curated selection of frameworks

Optional Companion Tools:

Low-cost frameworks and spirals for offline reflection and planning are available. Core content stays free.