In Loving Memory (and Quiet Reflection): Why It’s Okay to Read the Obits
This thoughtful blog post explores the quiet human habit of reading obituaries—and why it’s not morbid, but deeply reflective. It draws parallels to abandoned buildings, forgotten graves, and the beauty in what we leave behind.
Obituaries by Astraea
Sometimes, when I’m checking the weather or scanning headlines, I fall into what I call the obituary rabbit hole. A familiar name, an old photo, a life summarized in a few soft paragraphs. And before I know it, I’m scrolling.
It might sound strange, but I think it’s okay.
More than that—I think it’s important.
Reading obituaries isn’t about morbid curiosity. It’s about witnessing. It’s about looking at the quiet echoes of someone’s life and honoring the fact that they were here. That they loved, worked, hoped, maybe raised children, or sang off-key in the car. That they mattered.
It’s not so different from why I find myself drawn to abandoned buildings and old cemeteries.
There’s a haunting kind of beauty in human remains. Not just bones, but traces—
a name etched in granite,
a scrawled address on a rusted mailbox,
a sunlit window in a forgotten hall.
They remind me that we pass through this world leaving more than footprints. We leave stories.
Some told. Some lost.
Some written in newsprint.
Some in ivy-covered brick.
And when I read someone’s obituary, I can’t help but reflect:
What remains of me, if I were gone today?
Would I be remembered well?
What picture would they choose?
(And yes—I’ve seen some wild ones. I should probably pick mine now, while I still have a say.)
But underneath it all is something deeper:
A quiet check-in with mortality. A small whisper that says,
How can I live more intentionally, while I’m still here?
It’s okay to read the obits.
It’s okay to stand in an empty building and imagine the voices that once filled it.
It’s okay to pause beside a grave and wonder about a stranger’s favorite song.
These aren’t dark thoughts. They’re deeply human ones.
Because what’s left behind isn’t just decay or loss.
It’s evidence of life. Of being. Of meaning.
And maybe—just maybe—when I’m gone, someone will look at a photo, or a name, or a line I once wrote…
and quietly wonder about me, too.