The idea of a "long life" is usually treated like a trophy. We celebrate the 100th birthday with news cameras and sheet cake, marveling at the sheer endurance of the human body. But honestly? I’m not sure I want the trophy. There is a specific, somewhat controversial argument that has been circulating in medical ethics circles for years, most notably championed by Dr. Ezekiel Emanuel, a bioethicist and oncologist. He famously wrote an essay for The Atlantic titled "Why I Hope to Die at 75." It wasn't a suicide note or a cry for help. It was a calculated, philosophical stance on the "American immortal" obsession.
Death is uncomfortable. We spend billions trying to delay it, tucking it away in sterile hospital wings and anti-aging serums. But when you look at the reality of the "extra" years we’ve gained over the last century, they aren't always what we imagined. We've mastered the art of not dying, but we haven't quite figured out how to keep living with the same vigor after a certain point.
Why I hope to die at 75 and the decline of the "vital self"
Most people assume that more time is always better. It’s a quantity over quality mindset. However, by age 75, the "vital self"—that version of you that creates, explores, and engages deeply with the world—is often starting to fade. It’s a slow erosion. Dr. Emanuel argues that by this age, most of us have completed our best work. We’ve raised our children. We’ve seen our grandchildren start their lives.
Creativity has a biological clock. Whether we like it or not, the "fluid intelligence" that allows for rapid problem-solving and innovation peaks early. By 75, many people are living on the fumes of their past achievements. They are "legacy" versions of themselves. That sounds harsh, doesn't it? It is. But it’s also a perspective that prioritizes being remembered in your prime rather than as a shadow of who you were.
Living past 75 often involves what doctors call "compressed morbidity." In a perfect world, we’d be healthy until the very end and then drop off a cliff. Instead, modern medicine usually keeps us in a state of slow decline. We survive strokes that would have been fatal forty years ago, but we live the remaining decade with cognitive impairments or physical limitations. This isn't just about "dying." It's about the nature of the existence that remains.
The "Salami Slicing" of the human experience
There is a concept in ethics where life is slowly "sliced" away. First, you lose the ability to hike. Then, you lose the ability to drive at night. Then, you can't quite follow the thread of a complex movie. Eventually, you’re struggling to remember the name of the person sitting across from you.
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When people say they want to live to 100, they usually picture themselves at 100 with the body and mind of a 50-year-old. That is a fantasy. According to the Alzheimer’s Association, the risk of Alzheimer's or other dementias increases dramatically after age 65, and by 85, nearly one-third of people have some form of the disease.
Choosing 75 as a target isn't about being morbid. It’s about a refusal to participate in the medicalized stretching of life. I’ve seen it happen. You’ve probably seen it too. A loved one who is "alive" by clinical standards—heart beating, lungs inflating—but whose personality has long since evaporated. Is that the goal?
The burden on the next generation
We don't talk enough about the emotional and financial toll of extreme longevity on families. In the United States, the "sandwich generation" is already feeling the squeeze, caring for their own children while simultaneously managing the complex medical needs of aging parents. It’s exhausting. It’s heartbreaking.
When someone lives well into their 90s in a state of decline, the memories their children hold are often dominated by the final, difficult years. Instead of remembering a vibrant, active parent, the dominant image becomes the nursing home, the medication schedules, and the confusion. By hoping to die at 75, there's an intentionality about leaving while the memories are still bright.
The false promise of the longevity industry
If you browse any health site today, you'll see "biohackers" taking 50 supplements a day and sitting in cold plunges to live forever. Bryan Johnson, the tech millionaire, famously spends millions a year to have the "organs of an 18-year-old." It’s a fascinating experiment, but it misses the point of the human condition.
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Finitude is what gives life meaning.
If a movie never ended, you'd eventually walk out of the theater. The fact that our time is limited is exactly why we bother to fall in love, write books, or watch a sunset. The "death-defying" culture treats death as a failure of technology. It’s not. It’s a natural biological necessity. Without the recycling of generations, society would become stagnant. We need new ideas, new perspectives, and yes, the space that opens up when the older generation moves on.
What about the "active" 80-year-old?
Of course, there are outliers. We all know that one guy who runs marathons at 82 or the woman who finishes her PhD at 90. These stories are inspiring, which is exactly why they make the news—they are rare. Statistically, they aren't the norm.
For every marathon-running octogenarian, there are thousands of people dealing with chronic pain, sensory loss, and social isolation. The "loneliness epidemic" hits the elderly hardest. Friends die. Spouses pass away. The world becomes increasingly unrecognizable. Technology moves so fast that the "digital divide" becomes a wall.
The medical-industrial complex and the end of life
Western medicine is designed to treat acute problems. If you have an infection, we give you antibiotics. If your heart stops, we shock it. This is great for a 40-year-old. But for someone in their late 80s, these interventions often kick-start a cycle of "treatment-recovery-decline."
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I’ve talked to doctors who admit that we often do things to elderly patients rather than for them. We perform surgeries that have grueling recovery periods on people who don't have the "reserve" to bounce back.
Rethinking the "Full Life"
A "full life" doesn't have to be a long one. Some of the most influential people in history died young. Quality isn't measured in days; it's measured in impact and experience.
If I knew I was checking out at 75, I’d live differently right now. I wouldn't put off the "someday" trips. I wouldn't work a job I hated just to pad a retirement fund I might never fully use. There is a profound freedom in accepting an end date. It forces a level of presence that the "maybe I’ll live to 100" crowd lacks.
Practical steps for a meaningful finish
You don't have to agree with the 75-year cutoff to take something away from this philosophy. The core idea is about agency. It's about deciding how you want your final chapters to look before someone else—a doctor, a frantic relative, or a hospital administrator—decides for you.
- Define your "line in the sand." What makes life worth living for you? Is it recognizing your kids? Is it being able to read? Write these down.
- Complete an Advanced Directive. Don't just leave it to chance. Be incredibly specific about what interventions you do and do not want once you hit a certain age or state of health.
- Focus on healthspan, not just lifespan. Instead of trying to add years to your life, work on making the years you have more functional. Strength training and mobility are more important than almost any supplement.
- Invest in relationships now. The people who live the "best" long lives are those with deep social grafts. If you’re going to stay on the planet, don't do it alone.
- Legacy isn't money. Start thinking about what you want to leave behind in terms of wisdom or stories. Record them now while your mind is sharp.
Ultimately, why I hope to die at 75 is a personal calculation of grace. It’s the desire to exit the stage while the audience still wants an encore, rather than waiting until the theater is empty and the lights are being dimmed by someone else. It's a plea for a life that is intentional from the first breath to the very last.
Next Steps for Future Planning
To move from theory to practice, your first move should be to investigate the "Death Over Dinner" movement or similar groups that encourage open, non-medicalized conversations about the end of life. Following that, schedule a meeting with a primary care physician specifically to discuss "Quality of Life" goals rather than just "Maintenance" goals. This shifts the focus of your medical care from simply staying alive to staying yourself for as long as possible. Finally, look into the concept of "The Swedish Death Cleaning" (Döstädning)—a practical way to begin organizing your life and legacy so that your eventual departure is a gift to your survivors, not a burden.