This past year, I hosted Death Cafés at my college, Duke University. A death cafe is a community gathering where people come together to freely talk about whatever they want related to death and dying, without judgement. Every death cafe I’ve attended has a different character. The ages ranged and the topics varied. The unguided conversations were anything from caregiving concerns to existential dread. I left each cafe with a lot on my mind, and so, I found myself bringing the conversations into Facetime calls and dinner parties with friends. It made me wonder if other students would be interested in entertaining this type of dialogue. It has never been done before, so I wasn’t sure what to expect. Would people come and talk? Is this too weird for Duke?

I proposed this idea through an ethics lab run at my school, and I brought in a team of students to help run these cafes. There was an application and interview process, which resulted in a team from all different majors and classes. At the first cafe, my anticipatory anxieties dissipated almost immediately. Some brave souls arrived alone while others came with a friend or two. Over Costco snacks and sodas, 40 students settled across scattered tables, and the conversations flowed, unprompted and raw.

The themes and conversation topics varied. They raised questions about how different ideologies approach the afterlife, what constitutes “the good death,” and what death rituals reveal about a society’s values. At one table, an ex-Mormon sparked a conversation with a Jewish student on their faith systems’ relationship with death. At another table, a Chinese student shared how his family did not tell their grandfather he was dying because they did not want to concern him with this information. We talked about ethics, what is right and wrong, and learned from each other through the dialogue. The students approached dying as a human condition that demands theoretical and ethical considerations. In this context, the cafe offered students a space for intellectual exercise, where they could speculate and soundboard with others. It felt like a free-flowing, student-run seminar.

At other tables, students were eager to share introspective anxieties, specifically around their own mortality. They talked about fears of dying young and unexpectedly, and together, the table speculated on what might happen after they die. Some shared how fragile this life began to feel after losing loved ones, and how such events ignited personal reflections on their own unavoidable ending. They reflected on their finite lives, their legacy, and what it means to live and die well. These types of conversations invited a reflective stillness, a recognition of life’s impermanence, and a curiosity about how we make sense of it.

For most, however, the primary concern wasn’t their own death — it was losing those they love. Students spoke of aging grandparents they adored or wished they’d known better. Many voiced anxieties about their aging parents, increasing memory lapses, and a dawning realization that caregiving responsibilities may one day fall to them. The stories and reflections were tender and rooted in love. It showed sides of my peers that I rarely see, let alone in a room of strangers. Students shared afterwards that they never talk about this stuff with their friends or family. They are not sure why, but they “just don’t.”

It’s hard to pin down exactly what students took away from these cafes. Some students left looking contemplative, some disheartened, while others told me they felt seen or even uplifted. But what I can say with confidence is many students left saying, “I wish we could have hung out a bit longer after.”

Students want to talk about death, both as curious individuals and as young adults who have been touched by death in one way or another. I’ve come to believe that when given the space, young people are interested in exploring these conversations. We’re acutely aware that death is inevitable, some of us more than others. More than anything, it invites us to reflect on how we are living — what we value, what gives us meaning, and what we hope to leave behind.