Two Ways to Die:
Lessons from Two Fathers and the Lives They Left Behind
by Dr. Baruch “B” HaLevi
The Crossroads of Death
There are two ways to die.
I don’t mean medically. I don’t mean cleanly categorized as suicide versus cancer, sudden versus prolonged, at home versus in a hospital. That’s surface-level. I’m talking about soul-level. You can leave this life in a way that ruptures those around you, leaving confusion, devastation, and a wake of spiritual wreckage. Or you can die in a way that—though still painful—offers peace, clarity, and connection. You can leave with your fists clenched or your hands open. You can disappear or you can bless.
I’ve seen both.
I’ve lived both.
And both men were my fathers.
Father One: The Exit Wound
My biological father, Shelly, hung himself.
That sentence changes the chemistry in a room. It pulls everything down into a sharper gravity. Nearly two decades later, it still reshapes the air around it. He didn’t leave behind a grand story. He didn’t offer closure, or even an explanation. Just a brief, generic note—void of depth, heart, or dignity—and a body, suspended by his own hand. And though we cut him down from that physical place, his shattered legacy still hangs in limbo. Suspended in questions. Drenched in silence. Echoing into every part of me that once looked to him for grounding.
No final words.
No goodbyes.
No blessings.
No “I love you.”
No “I’m sorry.”
Nothing.
I’ve tried to make sense of it for 18 years—personally and professionally. I’ve built my life around the grief his absence created. I’ve written about him in books. Talked about him on stages. Told his story in sermons, in coaching sessions, in retreats with men who know this kind of ache. I’ve tried to turn pain into purpose. And yet, the question still lingers: Why would a man leave this way? But the deeper question—the one I ask every man I work with—is this: How do we make sure we don’t?
Because this isn’t only about suicide. Suicide is simply the final, irreversible punctuation on a sentence that’s already been dying for years. You don’t have to kill yourself to abandon your life. Most men do it gradually. Slowly. Quietly. Through withdrawal. Through workaholism. Through booze. Through porn. Through silence. Through sarcasm. Through shame.
My father didn’t just leave suddenly. He left slowly, over time. He numbed his feelings. Hid from his pain. Avoided his people. He stopped showing up. He was a ghost long before his heart stopped beating. And when he finally made it official, the devastation wasn’t just in the act—it was in everything that had come before. He left behind confusion. Guilt. Silence. And a wound in his children that never fully scabs over.
Death Is Not Always About Dying
As a rabbi, I’ve sat with hundreds of dying people. I’ve officiated over 500 funerals. I’ve been in rooms where breath left the body. I’ve felt the electricity of soul separating from flesh. And I’ve learned something most people don’t want to talk about:
There is such a thing as a bad death.
And not all bad deaths involve suicide.
There are deaths that feel like betrayal. Deaths that feel like an indictment. Deaths that radiate regret—not because of what happened in the final moment, but because of what never happened leading up to it. All the unspoken truth. All the unresolved pain. All the withheld love. There are men who die with clean medical charts and shattered spiritual ones.
Some people die surrounded by people—but entirely alone. Others die without anyone in the room—which, itself, says everything. Death doesn’t just reveal how we lived. It magnifies it. What we’ve left unsaid becomes deafening. What we’ve left undone becomes unignorable. And the tragedy is not only theirs. It becomes the inheritance of everyone they loved.
Father Two: The Final Blessing
Then there was Howard.
My stepfather. The man who married my mother and never tried to replace my father—he just filled the space where love and commitment were needed. Howard was a quiet man. An Oklahoma Sooners guy. Stoic. Strong. Steady. He didn’t talk about feelings. He didn’t make big declarations. Most of his life, he probably couldn’t articulate his inner world—and wouldn’t have wanted to even if he could.
But in the final weeks of his life, something changed.
Or maybe—finally—something emerged. Something sacred. Something soft. Something deeply human. As our family circled around his deathbed, day after day, moment after moment, we witnessed a man who wasn’t afraid. Who wasn’t hiding. Who didn’t need words to offer love, grace, or gratitude. He just was. Present. Real. Whole.
Howard didn’t launch into speeches. He didn’t write letters. He didn’t have to. He gave us everything in the way he looked at us, in the way he squeezed our hands, in the gentle whisper of a few words, or a slight nod. Through his eyes, he gave out “I love yous” and “I’m proud of yous” and “Goodbyes” without ever needing a script.
As his body declined, his soul rose.
And what he left behind wasn’t a mess. It was a legacy. It wasn’t confusion—it was clarity. A subtle, powerful, unmistakable blessing.
What Every Man Deserves
Not long ago, a close friend of mine told me the story of his father—a stereotypical shutdown man of the previous generation. He never talked about feelings. Never shared anything vulnerable. Never dropped the armor. Until, toward the end of his life, something began to shift. That man found his way into a men’s peer group—not one of ours, but another group out there. And for the first time in his son’s memory, he started to open up. Just a little. Just enough. To speak. To soften. To let go of the regrets. To begin touching his true self—not with fanfare or drama, but with quiet courage.
And when the time came and he entered hospice, something remarkable happened. That same men’s group—six, seven, maybe eight of them—came and gathered in his room. They had one final group meeting. One last circle. No agenda. Just presence. Just truth. Just love. And in that space, surrounded by his brothers, he died.
That’s how I want to go out.
And more importantly, that’s how every man deserves to go out.
Not alone. Not pretending. Not silent.
But in connection. In truth. In meaning.
With others. With love. With presence.
What Makes the Difference
The difference between Shelly and Howard wasn’t in how they died. It was in who they had become by the time death arrived. It was the work—or avoidance—they did in the years, months, and moments before that final breath.
One faced the end with his arms open, heart soft, soul clear.
The other fled, leaving behind more questions than answers.
One gave a final blessing.
The other handed down a silent wound.
Howard wasn’t perfect. But he showed up at the end. He looked us in the eyes. He didn’t run. And because he did the work—his work—we were left grieving, but not broken. Wounded, but not shattered. In pain, yes, but grounded in something holy.
And in doing so, he gave us something Shelly never could: a good death. A death not free of sorrow, but full of meaning. A death that taught us not how to die—but how to live.
The Invitation
We don’t like talking about this.
Men especially.
But we must.
Because you will die. That’s guaranteed.
The only question is how.
And the answer lies in what you do between now and then.
To my father Shelly—your death taught me how not to leave.
To my stepfather, Howard—your death showed me what is possible when a man dies well.
To you—whoever you are reading this—you have a choice.
There are two ways to die.
Only one of them allows you to fully live.
If you’re ready to live—and die—with meaning, come find us. Join a Men’s Peer Group. Virtual and in-person groups are forming now. No fluff. No masks. Just men doing the work while we still can.
👉 www.manuprising.org
Or reach out to me directly.
I’m here.
Until then—
Live your defiant spirit.