I wish I knew your name, so I could say it with the tenderness and warm welcome you deserve.
Something brought you here, and I want you to know that you are welcome.
This is a place for words written slowly. I have been a lifelong seer, questioner, and writer. It is how I express, explore, and make sense of the world. What you will find here are my musings on life, our journeys together, and death.
These writings exist for moments when you feel reflective, tender, curious, or quietly aware that something matters. For times when you are thinking about love, loss, connection, or simply what it means to be here together.
The words shared here are not instructions or answers. They are reflections, letters, and gentle offerings. Some may feel light, others may feel deep. You are welcome to read at your own pace, dip in, reflect, ponder on long walks, return when you need to, or pass by what does not speak to you right now.
These words sit alongside the Death Bed Questions decks, but they do not require them. They are here simply to offer companionship. For you are never truly alone, even if it feels that way. Here, you can open a little space for thought, and remind yourself that you are not alone in the questions and reflections you carry as you journey through life. Know that this time too will pass.
Thank you for being here.
Take what you need. Leave the rest.
With love,
Jo
There are questions we live with quietly. They sit somewhere behind the day-to-day of life. Behind the errands, the messages, the plans. We assume we will ask them one day, when there is more time, more ease, a better moment.
But loss has a way of arriving without notice.
And when it does, what often hurts most is not just the absence of the person, but the absence of the warmth, the deep conversations and the answers. The stories we never heard. The feelings we never named. The truths we didn’t quite dare to ask for.
After each loss in my life, I found myself lying awake at night, questions circling with nowhere to land. They came gently at first, then urgently. Questions about love, regret, joy, fear, and belonging. Questions I didn’t know how to ask until it was too late.
That is where Death Bed Questions began.
Not from a desire to dwell on endings, but from a longing to live more honestly while we still can.
These questions are not meant to rush anyone. They do not demand answers. They simply open a door. A door to a deeper and more meaningful conversation, reflection, memory, laughter, and sometimes a realisation and silence.
If you are carrying questions like these, you are not alone.
And you do not have to wait at any time you can have meaningful conversations with the living.
Death Bed Questions are not about death.
They are about life, memories, thoughts, feelings and legacies.
They are about noticing that we are here now, together, and that this moment is already precious. They are about choosing presence over postponement, honesty over assumption, and connection over comfort.
When I say these questions are “for the living”, I mean they are for people who want to know and be known more deeply. For families who want to understand one another beyond roles. For partners who want to speak the things that matter. For friends who want to share more than updates. For anyone who senses that life is asking something of them.
Sometimes we avoid deep conversations because we are afraid of what they might bring up. Emotion. Tears. Silence. Change.
But often what they bring is relief.
Relief at being seen. Relief at being heard. Relief at finally naming something that has been waiting patiently inside us or exploring something we’ve never thought of before.
You do not need to ask every question. You do not need to ask them in order. You do not need to arrive anywhere in particular.
You only need to begin where you are.
This space exists to remind you of that.
You can explore the decks if you feel drawn to take these conversations further.
One of the most important things I learned while asking these questions is this: how we ask matters as much as what we ask.
A question can be an invitation, or it can feel like a demand.
When we ask with urgency, expectation, or the need for resolution, we can unknowingly close someone down. But when we ask with gentleness, patience, and permission, something softer becomes possible.
Here are a few things that help:
Sometimes a question does its work simply by being asked.
Sometimes the answer comes in a story, a gesture, or a memory shared weeks later. Sometimes it comes as a feeling rather than words. Sometimes it comes through the silence, a story never to be told, is in fact a story.
And sometimes the most loving thing we can do is honour the courage it takes for someone to sit with the question at all.
These conversations are not about extracting truth. They are about creating safety.
If you approach them with care, curiosity, and love, they will meet you there.
The Death Bed Questions decks are designed to support these kinds of conversations, at your own pace.
