Notes From the Obituary Draft Folder

October has always been my favorite month. Not just because it’s my birthday month, but the air shifts. Everywhere you go smells like cinnamon, wet leaves, and ambition. Everyone’s pulling out their sweaters and pumpkin spice, talking costumes, and streaming Hocus Pocus for the 47th time. I’ve even got my own seasonal hack: skip the neon skulls and candy-corn décor, and just scatter gourds, pumpkins, and a few well-placed leaves across the kitchen table (they last you right through Thanksgiving).

But this year, spooky season feels… spookier. Not because of ghosts or ghouls, but because of an article I stumbled upon last week. It posed a question that, in its own way, was more chilling than any haunted house: what happens when we run out of cemetery space?

It sounds like a punchline at first, “so many people are dying to get in!”, but after reading the story, it really caused me to think. Because beneath the decision of traditional burial, cremation, or even flameless cremation (explained in the link above), a scarier thought: am I living a life that, when it ends, writes its own obituary? Or will my husband, my daughter, maybe even grandchildren someday, have to sit around a table and ask: “What should we say about him?”

There is a quote that lives in my little book of quotes rent free - and it comes from Warren Buffet. I can say it off the top of my head without even referencing it, and this mindfloss of a story made me resurrect the quote and give it deep thought. As I heard Warren Buffett once say:

“Write your own obituary and then figure out how to live up to it.” 

He’s right. Morbid? Maybe. Liberating? Absolutely. Because to write your obituary is to reverse-engineer your life. It’s a prompt, a blueprint, a North Star.

Lately, I’ve been hyper-focused on my personal brand - not just logos, colors, and taglines, but the real stuff: my character, my work, my fatherhood, my marriage. Who I’m showing up as in this in-between chapter of my career. Buffett’s quote was like a jolt. It made me realize that your obituary isn’t a press release… It's a receipt. Proof of how you spent your time here. And it left me asking myself if mine is adding up the way I want it to.

The thought followed me to the gym… as so many of my thoughts do. It’s the only place in New York where I can actually hear myself think - albeit between squeaky sneakers and Top 40 remixes. I hopped on the stairmaster for some much-needed cardio and opened YouTube. There it was: the Giorgio Armani Spring/Summer 2026 show in Milan - just weeks after Armani himself passed away in early September.

I figured, “why not?” If I had to climb virtual stairs for thirty minutes, at least I could watch some beautiful clothes glide down a runway. But within seconds, the whole mood shifted. A black baby grand piano sat slightly off center stage, surrounded by dimly lit lanterns. An older man walked out slowly and began to play. The models emerged: understated, timeless, effortless.

Somewhere between the piano keys and the steady climb of the stairmaster, I found myself crying. I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t even tired (yet). I was just… moved. The music had that impossible mix of optimism and mourning. The lighting was dramatic but reverent. The whole thing felt like a celebration of life, not just a fashion show. And I thought: if this was Armani’s vision for how he wanted to be celebrated after his passing, then hats off to him. The vision was perfect. The execution, flawless.

Or maybe it wasn’t his plan at all. Maybe his team just knew. Maybe the way he lived and led gave them a clear vision of how to honor him, because he’d been writing his obituary in real time all along.

That thought made me grab the stairmaster rails a little tighter. Because isn’t that the ultimate test? Not whether you’ve left instructions for your memorial, but whether you’ve lived so authentically that others could plan it without a question. That they’d know exactly who you were, what mattered to you, and how to celebrate you because you’d been showing them, day after day.

And so, somewhere between sweat and tears and runway envy (I wanted nearly every piece I saw the male models wearing), I made myself a silent promise: I’m going to live like my obituary is a Google Doc I update every day. No drafting at the end. No frantic edits. Just small daily choices that add up to a final version I’d be proud to leave behind.

If that sounds dramatic, well… it’s October.

Back at home, as if the universe wanted to hammer the point in, I scrolled LinkedIn (my last surviving social platform in this “digital detox” phase). A former colleague had posted a tribute to Jane Goodall, complete with a photo of them together. Underneath was a quote I’d never read before:

“You cannot get through a single day without having an impact on the world around you. What you do makes a difference, and you have to decide what kind of difference you want to make.”

I don’t know if I’m just more aware of the spooky season vibes, but that quote too hit me like a bass drop. Because here I am, in a career transition, trying to plot my next big chapter, and Jane Goodall is whispering across my feed: you’re already making a difference. The question is which one?

Full disclosure: my primary association with Jane Goodall up until now was Nymphia Wind’s portrayal of her on Snatch Game, but that’s a confession for another essay.

Goodall’s quote snapped me out of my “someday” thinking. Obituaries aren’t written at the end; they’re lived in the middle. The difference you’re making is already happening, even when you’re between jobs, even when you’re uncertain, even when your pumpkins are still on the porch.

Christopher Berg lived a life stitched together by ambition, sarcasm, and a suspicious number of late-night pizzas. A devoted husband and father, he built careers and friendships with the same intensity he brought to the stairmaster, his Friday newsletter, and the family dinner table, so that when the time came, no one would need to wonder who he was. It was obvious.

…and like any good Google Doc, the story is still being updated.

So here I am. Writing an essay in October about cemeteries, stairmasters, and personal branding. It’s all a little spooky, but it’s also clarifying. Because I’ve decided that my obituary isn’t a someday task. It’s a today task. Every email I send, every bedtime story I read to my daughter, every networking call I join, every friend I text back - that’s another line. Another paragraph. Another clue for the people who will one day remember me.

And maybe that’s the secret. If you live in a way that your obituary writes itself, then when the time comes, your loved ones won’t have to make plans or wonder what to say. They’ll already know. Because you’ve been telling them all along.

So is this it? Is this the life I want reflected back at me, or do I still have chapters left to write?

The weekly section where I call out a fraction: something that felt like progress this week (like a fraction forward) and a fiction: something that turned out to be a distraction or illusion. 

🎯 Fraction: Running has become my fall fling. Cooler temps have me out on the West Side Highway more often, podcasts in my ears, thoughts untangling with every mile. And as I head toward 39 later this month, I’ve never felt healthier. Accomplished, clear-headed, and… let’s just say the eye candy doesn’t exactly ruin the view.

🎭 Fiction: Nicki vs. Cardi. This latest feud feels less like rap beef and more like two adults who need their phones put in time-out. My take? Nicki started it, Cardi clapped back, and the rest of us are left with the digital equivalent of a screaming match in the middle of brunch. With everything happening in the world, the last thing we need is another round of rap-royalty chaos clogging our feeds.

A quick round-up of clips, headlines or stories, and cultural crumbs that made me pause and ask… is this it?

☕ Longest Line, Longest Latte
A new survey found Alabamians lead the nation with the wordiest coffee orders — averaging nearly nine words. Somewhere between “oat milk,” “extra foam,” and “two pumps vanilla,” the morning ritual has turned into a monologue.

🚴 Peloton’s Second Wind
Peloton is betting its future on Peloton IQ, a suite of AI-powered features and a new product lineup. Consider it the company’s obituary rewrite — less about the bike that gathers dust, more about the tech that keeps you moving.

📱 Sora Steps Into the Spotlight
OpenAI is launching Sora, its own TikTok competitor, alongside the Sora 2 model. Translation: the company that gave us ChatGPT now wants your scrolling time, not just your prompts.

📚 A Rainbow Returns
After nearly 20 years, Reading Rainbow is coming back with a new host, Mychal Threets. LeVar Burton may have turned the page, but the legacy lives on! Proof that some stories never really end.

🍾 Dom Meets Murakami
Dom Pérignon has tapped artist Takashi Murakami for its latest collaboration. Because if you’re going to toast to life, you might as well do it with champagne that doubles as contemporary art.

If this week’s essay made you pause and think about the draft you’re writing with your own life, don’t keep it to yourself. Forward this to three people in your life who might need the same reminder: the story isn’t finished yet, and none of us are editing alone.

Until next Friday,
Chris