Will Anyone Know What to Say at My Funeral?

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,110 words When I was nine, I wrote my own eulogy. Not because I was suicidal. Not because I wanted attention. Because I was scared I’d die without anyone knowing how to talk about me. I didn’t have the language for it at the time, but I was already masking so hard I didn’t trust anyone around me to describe me accurately. If I vanished, the world would have a file full of grades and report cards, maybe some stories about how I was “so mature” or “a little dramatic,” but no record of who I actually was. And if you think that sounds like overthinking for a nine-year-old, you’re right. But it’s also what happens when you grow up autistic and undiagnosed—aware that you're different, and quietly terrified that your difference will outlive you without being understood.

I remember hiding that eulogy in my Lisa Frank folder. Neon tigers on the front. Lined looseleaf inside. It started: “If you are reading this, I am not here anymore. That means someone else has to explain me.” Then I listed the basics: • I liked books. • I hated math. • I loved hard. • Loud noises made me cry. • I liked jokes but didn’t always get them. • I wasn’t trying to be rude when I didn’t answer right away. • I felt everything too much and all at once. There was more, but that’s what I remember now. Looking back, it was probably the most honest thing I’d ever written.

That instinct—to narrate my life in case no one else could—never really left. I kept journals, wrote essays, documented what I couldn’t explain in the moment. Not because I wanted attention. Because I needed record. Proof. Backup. I didn’t trust that the people around me understood how hard I was working just to seem okay. And I didn’t think anyone would know how to tell that story if I didn’t tell it myself.

Even now, part of me still worries: If I disappeared today, would the version of me left behind be the version that feels true? Would people talk about how I made them laugh? Or just how well I performed at school? Would they talk about how I showed up at 3AM when they needed someone to rage-cry with? Or just how “put together” I seemed from the outside? Would they talk about how I advocated for my kids, wrote through my grief, fought for fairness, created AWRYTE and MYNDSTYLE and everything in between? Or would it just be “She was so strong,” the line we slap on grief when we don’t know what else to say?

Here’s the truth: I don’t want to be remembered for being strong. I want to be remembered for being real. For telling the truth when it was uncomfortable. For learning out loud. For loving people at their messiest. For refusing to pretend I was fine when I wasn’t. And maybe for saying the thing no one else wanted to say— but needed to hear.

Funerals always bring out the best and worst in people’s storytelling. There’s this quiet panic around saying the “right” thing. And usually, the version of the person who died gets smoothed over—like we're afraid to admit they were complicated. But I think the most loving thing you can do for someone is tell the full truth. Not in a cruel way. In a human way. So here’s what I hope people would say at mine: “She didn’t always get it right. But she kept showing up.” “She loved hard, even when it hurt.” “She was awkward sometimes and knew it and didn’t hide it.” “She made people feel less alone.” “She cracked dark jokes in the middle of hard moments and made it okay to laugh.” “She took things personally and used that fire to make things better.” “She was a lot. But she didn’t expect anyone else to shrink for her.”

This isn’t about death. It’s about honesty. Because so many of us are walking through life like ghosts of ourselves, afraid to be known in full. We polish the parts that get praised. We hide the parts that get misunderstood. We joke about the rest, so no one sees the cracks. But I don’t want a funeral full of half-truths. I want a life full of full ones. That’s what AWRYTE is for. It’s not just a blog. Not just a brand. It’s a survival record. It’s the way I make sure my story gets told right while I’m still here to tell it.

So no, I don’t need anyone else to write my eulogy. I’m writing it now. In bits and pieces. In essays and captions and texts I rewrite six times before sending. And I hope you’re writing yours too. Not because we’re planning for the end. But because we’re finally honoring the middle. The messy, honest, glorious middle.