Different Paths, Shared Clarity
Client Stories
Irv believed he was already prepared.
Irv had planned for dying. He had not planned for living.
A single parent with three adult children scattered across three states, Irv had done what responsible people do. He had a will. He had filled out and signed Five Wishes. He had talked openly about the end, the moment people tend to picture when they think about planning.
But the truth was simpler, and also more complicated: Irv had planned for dying. He had not planned for living.
He had not pictured the far more likely stretch of years—perhaps twenty or even twenty-five—when he might still be very much alive but navigating illness, recovery, or the slow erosion that aging sometimes brings. His children could honor his wishes in the final hours, but none of them knew what he would want in the long middle.
In that moment, the scenario felt real to him, and he suddenly saw the gap. His children knew how he wanted to die. They did not know how he wanted to live.
Through the Game Plan process, Irv began to articulate the part of himself he had never put into words: the shape of a life worth sustaining.
"Being that Adele and I hashed out many of the guardrails and guidelines the kids will need to know, they now understand what I see or foresee as the worst kind of future - a long, drawn-out decline either at home or in an institution. – Now I feel pretty good that they can make the right decisions on my behalf. We joke and tease about it because I am so healthy and fit at this time (73 years old). They are aware of my overall philosophy of life....and death. So I feel pretty good so far." - Irv
When Fear Made Silence Feel Safer
For years, Susan and John had avoided the same conversation. Every attempt to talk about aging became tense or emotional.
For years, Susan and John had avoided the same conversation.
They both knew planning mattered. They were thoughtful, responsible, and deeply committed to each other. Yet every attempt to talk about aging became tense or emotional, leaving them discouraged and farther apart than when they started.
It was not disagreement.
It was overwhelm.
John carried a fear he had never been able to name. It showed up as a recurring nightmare. In it, he was alone, penniless, dying under a bridge. He woke up shaken, overwhelmed by the image and the sense that everything could unravel. Any attempt to talk about the future brought the nightmare closer, so avoidance felt safer.
What looked like resistance was actually protection.
When we began working together, the goal was not to force decisions. It was to make the conversation possible. We began with Susan and invited John into the process when he was ready. Instead of starting with plans or logistics, we focused on meaning and values.
To help John enter the conversation, we began with a different image. He was invited to imagine the days before his death not as a crisis, but as a loving and realistic scene. In that vision, he was surrounded by children and grandchildren. He was not alone. He was not afraid. He was at peace. That shift grounded the conversation in something human and true, rather than fear.
That change made the conversation accessible for the first time.
Grounded in this more realistic vision, John was able to think about the future without shutting down. The nightmare no longer defined the conversation. Together, Susan and John could talk about what mattered most and listen without retreating from one another.
From there, practical decisions followed more naturally. They talked calmly about selling their house, recognizing it would not serve them well as they aged. Susan moved closer to creating her will. Conversations they had avoided for years became manageable.
John later reflected on what surprised him most.
"I am astonished that I now have positive, warm feelings about the days before I die. I never imagined that was possible. "
For Susan and John, the work created a way to face the future together, without fear dictating silence.