You’re standing in front of your closet, staring at a black blazer that smells slightly like cedar and old memories. Outside, it’s raining. Or maybe it’s a beautiful Saturday and you had tickets to the game. You’re tired. You didn't even know the deceased that well—maybe it was a coworker’s dad or your second cousin’s wife. You start doing the mental math of social obligation. "They won't even notice I'm not there," you tell yourself. But that’s where you're wrong. You should always go to the funeral.
It sounds like a burden. Honestly, it is. Funerals are inconvenient, expensive, and emotionally draining. They force us to confront the one thing we spend our entire lives trying to ignore: our own expiration date. Yet, the philosophy of showing up is one of the few remaining pillars of shared human decency that hasn't been completely eroded by the digital age. When you go, you aren't there for the person in the casket. They’re gone. You are there for the people left behind, the ones standing in a receiving line with trembling hands and glazed eyes, trying to figure out how the world is still turning when their own world just ended.
The Origin of the "Always Go" Philosophy
This isn't just some vague piece of advice passed down by grandmothers, though they were usually right about it. The concept gained massive cultural traction back in 2005 when Deirdre Sullivan wrote an essay for NPR’s This I Believe series. She talked about her father, a man who lived by this singular, rigid rule. It didn't matter if it was a Tuesday morning or if he had a meeting. He went.
Sullivan’s father understood something fundamental about human psychology. He knew that when you show up at a funeral, you are performing a "mitzvah" or a selfless act that can never be repaid. The dead cannot thank you. The grieving are often too overwhelmed to even remember you were there in the moment, but they will remember the volume of the room. They remember that the church was full. They remember that people took time out of their busy, self-important lives to acknowledge their loss.
Why We Try to Talk Ourselves Out of It
We are experts at rationalization.
"I'll just send a card."
"I'll visit them in a few weeks when things settle down."
"I hate funerals; they’re too depressing."
Let’s be real: everyone hates funerals. They aren't supposed to be fun. If you’re looking for a good time, go to a bottomless mimosa brunch. We avoid funerals because they make us uncomfortable. We don't know what to say. We’re afraid we’ll say the wrong thing—something cliché like "he’s in a better place" or "at least she isn't suffering anymore."
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Here is a secret: It doesn't matter what you say. In fact, the less you say, the better. A hug, a firm handshake, and the words "I am so sorry for your loss" are all that is required. The physical presence of your body in that space is the message. By being there, you are saying, "This death matters because this life mattered, and your grief is valid." When you skip it, you are subtly suggesting the opposite.
The Social Physics of Grieving
Grief is incredibly isolating. When someone dies, the immediate family often feels like they are trapped under a glass bell jar. They can see the rest of the world moving on—people buying groceries, laughing at jokes, complaining about traffic—but they are stuck in a frozen reality.
Always go to the funeral because it breaks that isolation.
There is a specific kind of comfort that comes from seeing a crowd. It’s a form of social proof. If a hundred people show up for a funeral, it’s a collective testimony that the person who died left a mark on the world. For the grieving family, that crowd is a temporary levee against the flood of despair. It keeps them afloat for just a little bit longer.
Think about the most impactful funerals you’ve attended. It’s rarely the eulogy that sticks with you. It’s the sight of someone from the deceased’s distant past—an old high school teacher, a former neighbor from twenty years ago, a guy they used to play pickup basketball with—standing in the back of the room. Those people didn't have to be there. That’s exactly why their presence means the most.
The Professional Argument for Showing Up
In a business context, this is even more critical. We live in an era of "networking" and "personal branding," but nothing builds a bond faster than showing up during a crisis.
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If a client loses a spouse, or a direct report loses a parent, your presence at the service does more for your professional relationship than a thousand LinkedIn endorsements ever could. It signals that you view them as a human being, not just a line item on a spreadsheet.
I once knew a CEO who kept a "funeral suit" in his office at all times. He wasn't morbid; he was just prepared. He understood that leadership isn't just about hitting quarterly targets; it’s about being the person who stands by his team when things fall apart. He didn't just send flowers. Flowers are easy. You can order flowers in thirty seconds from your phone. Flowers are a transaction. Showing up is a sacrifice of time, and time is the only thing we can't get back.
What If You Really, Truly Can't Go?
Life happens. Sometimes there’s a literal ocean between you and the funeral home. Sometimes you’re sick, or you’re dealing with a family crisis of your own.
If you can't go, you must compensate. A text message is not enough. An email is not enough. You need to pick up the phone and call. Or better yet, write a letter. A real, physical, handwritten letter that the person can hold in their hands and read when the house goes quiet three weeks later and everyone else has stopped calling.
But if the only thing stopping you is your own discomfort or a busy schedule, you should probably just go.
The Unexpected Benefits for You
Selfishly, there is a benefit to you, too. Funerals provide perspective. They are a "memento mori"—a reminder that you will die.
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When you sit in those hard wooden pews and listen to someone’s life being summarized in fifteen minutes, you can't help but audit your own life. Are you spending your time on things that matter? Are you being the kind of person people will show up for? It’s a cold splash of water to the face. It wakes you up from the autopilot of daily existence.
A Few Practical Rules for the Socially Anxious
If you’ve decided to go but you’re dreading the "social" part of it, keep these things in mind:
- The 10-Minute Rule: You don't have to stay for the entire wake or the after-party. If it’s a visitation, you can walk in, sign the book, speak to the family for sixty seconds, and leave. You’ve fulfilled the obligation. You were there.
- Don't make it about you: This isn't the time to tell the story of how you felt when your dog died. Keep the focus on them.
- Dress for the occasion: You don't necessarily need a three-piece suit anymore, but show respect. If you look like you just came from the gym, it looks like the funeral was an afterthought.
- Sign the guest book: This is vital. The family often views the guest book as a blur of faces they couldn't quite place in the moment. Seeing your name there later provides a second wave of comfort.
The Long-Term Impact
We talk a lot about "community" these days, but community isn't a Facebook group or a Slack channel. Community is the group of people who show up when things are grim.
When you choose to always go to the funeral, you are participating in the construction of that community. You are setting a standard. You are saying that in this circle, we don't let people grieve alone. And one day, years from now, when it’s your turn to sit in the front row and feel the world collapsing around you, you’ll look back and see a room full of people. You’ll realize then that they aren't there because they had nothing better to do. They are there because you were there for them.
It’s a cycle of grace. It’s inconvenient, yes. It’s sad, absolutely. But it is perhaps the most human thing we do.
Actionable Steps for Showing Up
- Keep a "Funeral Kit" ready: Have one clean, dark outfit and a box of high-quality sympathy cards in your house. Eliminating the friction of "what do I wear" or "I need to buy a card" makes it easier to say yes.
- Prioritize the "Outer Circle": If your best friend's mom dies, you're going. That's a given. The real test is the outer circle—the people who won't expect you to be there. Those are the funerals where your presence has the most weight.
- Silence your phone: This should go without saying, but in 2026, it needs to be said. Don't just vibrate. Silent. Or better yet, leave it in the car. Give the grieving your undivided attention for thirty minutes.
- Follow up 30 days later: The funeral is the peak of support. A month later, the support has vanished, but the grief is often heavier. Set a calendar reminder to send a "thinking of you" text or note 30 days after the service. That is when it’s truly needed.