More alive than ever

Why Dying for Sex is one of the most important shows about dying... and living

I don’t usually watch TV shows about death and dying.

It feels a bit like a busman’s holiday for me. So much of my work already revolves around death, dying and loss that, in my downtime, I prefer to step away from it. I don’t even read much fiction about death anymore; non-fiction about grief and mortality fills enough of my reading life. So it takes a lot for me to feel drawn toward anything death-related in my leisure time.

And Dying for Sex, well, I was doubly resistant. It’s not just about death, but about sex too.

But honestly, I think it's the best thing I’ve seen in years, and tells an incredible positive story about how to live and die well.

It’s based on the real story of a woman (Molly, played by Michelle Williams) given a terminal diagnosis, who realises she doesn’t want to die without having truly explored her sexuality. She makes the radical decision to detonate the life she knows (including her marriage) to embark on a journey of sexual discovery and pleasure.

The show is incredible: the writing, acting, production, everything. The characters are my age, and so it hit close to home. But it also stirred up some deeper reflections that I wanted to share here.

Sex is still harder to talk about than death

One of the first things that struck me was how I found the topic of sex harder to sit with than the topic of death.

In some ways, it made me wonder if I’m a little Victorian at heart.

In my work, people are often eager – even relieved – to talk to me about death. There’s so little room for honest conversations about dying that when people find someone open to it, it can act like a release valve.

Stories spill out: about loved ones, regrets, questions, curiosities. Death, as much as it’s tough, becomes oddly easy for people to explore once they’re given permission.

Sex, on the other hand, remains trickier. My friends and I don’t talk about our sex lives, our sexual dreams or regrets, even though it’s arguably just as fundamental to being human.

I wondered if, for sex therapists or sex workers, it’s similar to how people treat me around death: eager, curious, desperate to talk once they find a willing listener.

But for me personally, sex is more heavily shrouded. It’s harder to give language to, harder to give space to, even more so than death.

Facing mortality by living fully

The heart of Dying for Sex is the Molly’s decision to really live before she dies.

Faced with a terminal diagnosis, she recognises that without bold action, she might die having never truly been alive in the way that mattered most to her.

And for her, being fully alive meant experiencing her own sexuality: having real orgasms, feeling pleasure, claiming her desires unapologetically.

Watching her choose this path – despite the fallout, the painful consequences for relationships and expectations – was profoundly moving for me. She had the courage to blow up the life that no longer fit her in order to create a short but authentic chapter before her death.

And while for her it was about sex, the deeper point is universal:

What would we choose to prioritise if we knew our time was short?

Would we have the bravery to pursue it, even if it meant breaking some things along the way?

This story was a beautiful, tangible reminder that the clarity brought by mortality can help us see what it really means for us to be alive and that living fully might look very different for each of us.

A beautifully quiet, sacred death

(Spoilers ahead if you haven’t watched the show!)

When Molly’s illness progresses and she transitions from treatment to palliative care, the show portrays this phase (I think) with rare beauty and honesty.

There’s a scene where a hospice nurse, Amy, gets ahead of herself and accidentally breaks the news before the doctor does – a mistake that, while comedic in the show, isn’t unheard of in real life. But what truly stood out was the way Amy talked about the dying process.

She spoke with an effervescence, a warmth, an unapologetic humanness that made me laugh out loud and also deeply moved me. She described death not as a medical failure, not with detached paternalistic professionalism, but as a sacred, natural, empowering journey.

She didn’t shy away from it or make it clinical. She compared it to birth, blinking, sneezing: involuntary, natural processes that the body knows how to do.

Watching that scene, I thought: I hope I have someone like her when it’s my time.

Because while the character was relatively young, the reality of dying (and dying well) is rarely shown with this much humanity.

Amy gave the greatest gift you can offer someone at the end of life: the belief that they can do it well. That death doesn’t have to be terrifying. That their body will know how to let go.

It was one of the best explanations of the dying process I’ve ever seen on screen, because it removed fear without removing honesty.

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I don’t really believe in bucket lists.

They’ve always seemed a little forced, a little disconnected from the real work of facing mortality.

But what I do believe in – and what Dying for Sex so beautifully illustrated – is the gift of mortality itself: the way death can bring life into sharper focus. The way it can strip away the noise and reveal what really matters.

It reminded me that sometimes, being fully alive doesn’t require decades.

It can happen in a few short months of honest, courageous, wholehearted living, with the people who love you holding space for you to be who you truly are.

Dying for Sex is a beautiful, funny, heart-wrenching story, and I’m so glad I watched it.

It made me think deeply about what it means to live and die well, and hopefully it will for you too.