You Don’t Owe Anyone Closure—Even When You’re Dying

"Have you made amends?" "Have you said goodbye properly?" "Don’t you want to leave on good terms?"

These questions come wrapped in a warm tone and a sympathetic smile, but underneath is a demand: perform closure. 

Perform peace. Be palatable. Be digestible. Be selfless, right to the bitter end.

Let me say this clearly: You do not owe anyone closure. Not before you die. Not after. Not ever.

The Myth of “Closure”

Closure is not something you can give someone. It’s not a neat little package you can wrap up in a final conversation. It’s not a soul handshake. It’s a myth born out of our collective discomfort with uncertainty and grief. People crave closure because they want their pain to have a finish line.

But you are not a tool for someone else’s emotional resolution.

If someone treated you poorly in life—if they abused, neglected, or harmed you—they don’t suddenly deserve your time or your emotional labor because you’re dying. They don’t get access to your inner world because it might help them sleep better at night. Your deathbed is not their confessional.

Guilt Is Not a Death Requirement

So many of my clients—especially women and queer folks—feel immense guilt about denying someone a “chance to say goodbye.” But here’s the truth: if they didn’t earn the right to sit at your table while you were living fully, they haven’t magically earned it now.

You don’t have to see them.

You don’t have to respond to the letter.

You don’t have to give the dying equivalent of “no hard feelings.”

You don’t have to set anyone else free but yourself.

Closure Is an Inside Job

If someone truly wants closure, they can get it—but it’s their work to do, not yours to facilitate. They can write their letter. They can see a therapist. They can sit with the discomfort. That’s their path, not yours.

You get to prioritize your own comfort, peace, and authenticity. You get to spend your final days how you choose—with the people you love, doing the things that matter, in silence, in laughter, or in rage. You get to die on your terms.

Your Death Is Not a Performance

This moment belongs to you. Not your estranged sister. Not your high school ex. Not your absentee parent.

You can choose connection—or distance. You can offer forgiveness—or hold your line. But let that choice be yours. Let it come from truth, not pressure.

You are not a morality play. You are not a closure vending machine.

You are a person who is dying—and that is sacred.

So here it is, from one death worker to anyone who needs to hear it:

You do not owe anyone closure.

Not even now.

Especially not now.