Dead People Goals

…& Other Harsh Realities

I recently realized that my life was being outpaced by a group of people who, by all accounts, should no longer be achieving anything. That’s right—I’m talking about dead people.

Take Vincent van Gogh. The man sold exactly one painting while he was alive. One. And yet, in death, his work is worth hundreds of millions of dollars. Meanwhile, I have at least two people who have told me they would “totally buy” my book when it comes out, which, given my current pace, will happen sometime after my estate is settled. (…if I had an estate.)

Or Emily Dickinson, who barely published a thing while she was alive but is now considered one of the greatest poets of all time. I, too, have an impressive collection of unpublished work—except instead of profound reflections on life, mine are a graveyard of abandoned Word documents with titles like Book Idea #12 or Self-Worth and Other Things I Don’t Have Time to Think About.

Then there’s Benjamin Franklin, who managed to be a writer, inventor, politician, and all-around overachiever while also being a known nudist. (Look it up.) The closest I’ve come to that level of ambition is wearing pajama pants to a Zoom meeting.

So, I started wondering: If dead people can accomplish all this, what’s my excuse? These are people who, by definition, should be doing nothing, and yet, they continue to thrive. Their work is published, their paintings sell, and their achievements are studied in schools. Meanwhile, the hand-me-down air fryer in my kitchen remains unused because googling the instructions for use seems “too complicated”.

Alas, I’ve discovered my predicament has a name. Psychologist Russ Harris, in his work on Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT), describes something called Dead People Goals. The term refers to goals that only a dead person could accomplish perfectly—like never feeling anxious, never procrastinating, never making a mistake. Psychologist Susan David elaborates that Dead People Goals are deceptive because while they sound reasonable (“I just want to stop worrying!”), they’re actually impossible. The only people who never stress about life are, quite simply, people who no longer have one.

Which means my dream of being wildly productive, effortlessly accomplished, and blissfully distraction-free is, in fact, a Dead Person Goal.

Apparently my perfectly emotionless, anxiety-free self is only available in the afterlife.

OK… perhaps actual dead people may still manage to outdo me.  But while I realize I’m failing to live up to their potential, more importantly I’m failing to live up to my potential.  And I can’t lean on the fact it’s only because they’re unburdened by things like sleep, hunger, or existential dread. 

So, I’ve decided it’s time to set a few Living Person Goals, which hopefully won’t leave my eventual ghost shaking its spectral fist in regret.  In contrast to Dead People Goals, the Living Person Goals will focus on embracing imperfection, action over paralysis, and valuing the messy, unpredictable process of being alive. And here’s where I’m starting:

1. Finish something (even if it’s bad). Unlike Dickinson, who had people to refine her work after she died, I need to accept that my rough drafts will be published as is.
2. Be okay with looking ridiculous. Franklin was a genius and a nudist. I’m just trying to be a person who can wear mismatched socks in public without spiraling into shame.
3. Create something I enjoy, even if no one else cares. Unlike van Gogh, I can appreciate my own work now, rather than waiting for a future where art historians try to explain my questionable life choices.
4. Let go of the idea that I need to be remarkable. Not everything I do needs to be groundbreaking. Sometimes, just showing up is enough.

At the end of the day, the only way to avoid Dead People Goals is to embrace the beautifully imperfect reality of being alive. We don’t need to wait for posthumous success or a polished legacy—we can create, laugh, fail, and try again now. Life isn’t about erasing all the mistakes or achieving some untouchable greatness; it’s about showing up, taking a swing, and making something—anything—while we still can.

So, I have two choices:
A) Get my act together and accomplish something while I’m still breathing.
B) Hope someone finds my unfinished manuscripts, grocery lists, and half-written texts and turns them into a posthumous masterpiece.

Honestly, option B sounds pretty nice. But just in case, I guess I’ll finish this blog post, send that email, and—dare I say it—finally plug in my air fryer. Small steps. Because unlike dead people, I don’t have forever.