On a recent Saturday morning at the Seaside Center for Spiritual Living in Encinitas, the sound of a flute drifted through a meeting room as strangers settled into small groups.
They told stories many people rarely share out loud.
“The first experience I ever had was when a sibling of mine, a brother, died at 6 months old,” said participant John Gerardi. “And I was about, I don't know, 8 or 9 or 10.”
The topic of conversation was death.
Death cafés started in Switzerland in 2004 and have since spread worldwide.
Selena Jong, is a death doula who advocates for people who are dying, helps families navigate the dying process, and organizes a death café every month in Encinitas.
“I started death café because I also needed a place to have a community to talk about any topic related to death and dying, and there aren't spaces like that available to the community,” she said.
In San Diego County, a handful of death cafés meet regularly — some in person, others online.
After years marked by pandemic loss, Jong said more people are willing to talk about the end of life.
“The very first time I held death café, we had maybe 30 people,” she said. “This year, particularly all of a sudden, we've had a steady stream of over 40 — so 40 to 50 people.”
For some, it’s about connection.
“When I told my son I'm going to death café, he’s like, 'what is that? Are you dying?' I say no. I'm there to meet people and talk to people,” Gerardi shared at the table.
Gerardi learned about the death café from an ad in an Encinitas newspaper.
The monthly gathering has become part of his routine. He’s attended 10 months in a row.
“Just to meet with people and get their perspective … about dying,” he said. “And I learned a lot.”
For others the conversations are less about coping and more about planning, Jong said.
“A lot of people find that they don't have their affairs in order,” Jong said. “And the light bulb goes off like, 'oh, I need to talk to my family, talk to my loved ones about what my wishes are. I need to get my advanced directive done.'”
Research showed many Americans don’t have end-of-life plans in place. And those conversations often happen too late.
At each death café table, there’s no expert. No advice. Just stories.
“It's not therapy … it's just open discussion, and it's safe and it's judgment free,” Jong said.
The stories shared can be heavy. People wrestling with their own mortality. Parents who lost children. Spouses grieving decades-long marriages.
“Most everyone that I've met, very nice people and have sad stories,” Gerardi said. “Some of them have anxiety attacks. Not knowing about dying, you know, and scared to die and all that.”
And yet, in the middle of these conversations, something unexpected happens. Laughter.
“Did you notice a lot of people laughing?” Gerardi said. “I even tell jokes to my table.”
At 90, Gerardi is upbeat and still active — quick to smile and eager to talk. He was married nearly 65 years.
“I miss her,” he said. “She was a beautiful lady.”
He spent the last six years caring for his wife through a long decline. That experience shaped how he hopes his own life will end.
“So I'm not afraid of it,” he said. “I keep busy. My hobby’s my savior.”
In his workshop, he crafts wooden trivets, sanding and shaping small pieces of wood. Keeping busy, he said, helps quiet the isolation he sometimes feels. A perspective he often shares at the café.
“I just give them hope because if I live this long at 90, doing what I'm doing, I just want them to know, just keep busy,” he said.
He’s also learning about the range of choices people now consider at the end of life.
“What I was really … surprised at how many different cremations there are,” he said. “They had water, cremation … and they have green cremation where people want their ashes in a compost.”
Jong believes broader cultural shifts are making death less taboo.
“Showing more death positive images and stories and media is also starting to shift,” she said. “I think it's all going in the right direction.”
Still, she said access matters.
“I definitely think these conversations need to be more in communities of color,” Jong said. “I think we can do a better job of making this more accessible to more lower-income communities.”
Back at the café, conversations hum across the room — about fear, grief, planning, and what people hope for at the end of life.
For Gerardi, it’s simple. He plans to keep busy in his workshop, and keep showing up at the café each month.
“If it comes to a point where I can't do what I'm doing and I'm not able to take care of myself, I'll just go peacefully, too,” he said.
Then he smiled.
“I wish it was every Saturday.”
If you or someone you know needs help, contact the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline by calling or texting the number 988.
