When They Want to Talk About Dying: The Gift of Not Having Answers

By Cody Hufstedler, Palliative Care Chaplain and Host of "Dying To Tell You"

One of the most challenging moments in supporting someone with a terminal illness comes when they want to talk about their dying, and we realize we have absolutely nothing to say. Our instinct is to find words that will make it better, to offer perspective that will ease their fear, or to change the subject to something more comfortable. But in my years as a palliative care chaplain, I've learned that our discomfort with having no answers is actually pointing us toward exactly what they need most.

It can be difficult for us all to acknowledge and talk about the fact that we're all born with an expiration date. But through countless conversations both in my professional work and on "Dying To Tell You," I've discovered that the most profound support often comes not from having the right words, but from being willing to sit in the space where words feel inadequate.

When someone brings up their mortality, our immediate impulse is often to reassure them, to remind them of treatments still available, or to shift focus to happier topics. This response comes from love, but it also comes from our own fear of sitting with something we can't fix. When we rush to fill the silence with solutions or optimism, we inadvertently communicate that their thoughts about dying are too scary for us to handle.

Patients and podcast guests consistently tell me that what they need most when discussing their mortality isn't advice or reassurance—it's a witness to their experience. They need someone who can hear them talk about their fears, their sadness, their anger, or their curiosity about what comes next without trying to talk them out of those feelings or minimize their reality.

"I don't know what to say, but I'm here" might feel insufficient to us, but it's often exactly what someone needs to hear. This simple acknowledgment does several important things: it validates that their situation is indeed difficult, it expresses your commitment to staying present even when things are hard, and it removes the pressure for them to comfort you about their own dying.

I've discovered over the years that understanding, comfort, even joy can come through intentionally facing our finish line together. But this only happens when we stop trying to make death less scary and start learning to be present with fear, sadness, and uncertainty. These conversations can become deeply alive explorations of what it means to be human in the face of mortality.

Sometimes the most helpful thing you can say is nothing at all. Sitting quietly while someone processes their thoughts about dying communicates that their experience is valid and that you're strong enough to be with them in their most vulnerable moments. The silence between you becomes a container for their feelings rather than something that needs to be filled with words.

When they do want to talk, listen for what they're really expressing beneath their words. Are they afraid of pain? Worried about their family? Curious about what dying might feel like? Angry about lost time? Often, they're not looking for you to solve these concerns—they're looking for someone who can hear them without judgment and without trying to fix what can't be fixed.

The thousands of conversations I've had in my professional role have taught me that people often need to voice their fears and thoughts about dying multiple times. They might bring up the same concerns repeatedly, not because they forgot your previous conversation, but because processing mortality is an ongoing experience that unfolds in layers.

Sometimes they want to explore practical questions about their dying—what it might look like, how to prepare their family, or what arrangements need to be made. Other times they want to talk about existential questions—what happens after death, whether their life has mattered, or how to find meaning in their remaining time. Both types of conversations deserve the same respect and presence.

I've learned that our discomfort with these conversations often stems from feeling responsible for making things better. But when someone is dying, better doesn't mean cured or fixed—it means feeling less alone with their experience. It means knowing that someone can be present with their reality without being overwhelmed by it.

Your willingness to listen without having answers is actually a profound gift. It tells them that their experience is worthy of attention, that their thoughts and feelings about dying matter, and that they don't have to protect you from the reality of their situation. Sometimes the most caring thing we can offer is simply our undefended presence in the face of life's greatest mystery.