A successful but dissatisfied sports journalist, Mitch Albom, reunites with his former teacher of 16 years, a retired sociology professor on the brink of death named Morrie Schwartz. Over a series of Tuesday meetings, they rekindle their teacher-student relationship and friendship. While suffering from Lou Gehrig’s disease, Morrie dedicates his final days to teaching Albom about the nature of love, the meaning of death, and how to be “fully human.” As Albom sees it, Tuesdays with Morrie is his last thesis paper for Morrie course, where he recounts their friendship and the lessons Morrie has modeled. With nearly 18 million copies sold in 48 languages, Tuesdays with Morrie is one of the best-selling memoirs of all time.

Mitch Albom met Morrie Schwartz when he signed up for a sociology course Morrie taught. They bonded immediately. During his undergrad years, Albom took as many of Morrie’s courses as he could fit into his schedule, and the two men developed a cherished friendship. Though Albom promised to keep in touch after graduation, he lost contact. 

Sixteen years later, Morrie was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig's disease. He made the profound decision to spend the last two years of his life not withering or feeling ashamed but making "death his final project." He gathered family and friends and devoted himself to sharing his love and knowledge with them. Morrie didn't ask for sympathy. He wanted them to visit, call, and have conversations with him. Eventually, due to a series of unlikely events, Morrie’s story and his courageous attitude towards death were featured in the Boston Globe. He gained national recognition. Then Ted Koppel, host of ABC-TV's "Nightline," asked to interview him.

Meanwhile, Albom, after facing the death of his uncle, resolved to make the most of his time and avoid getting sick. He abandoned his dreams to be a musician and pivoted his career towards sports journalism. Before he could even notice, his life was dedicated to exercising "like a demon," working, and investing. He bought many cars and a house on a hill. By 37, he had become a poster boy for modern values. He abandoned his dreams for a bigger paycheck, buried himself in accomplishments, and was consumed by computers and cell phones. One evening while casually flipping channels on his TV, Albom heard a voice say, "Who is Morrie Schwartz?" He went numb. 

At the end of his life, Morrie felt that he could be of great support to his loved ones and the world, despite his terminal illness. He was resolute in making everyone around him understand that dying was not useless. When Albom traveled to Massachusetts to visit his beloved professor, Morrie welcomed him with a hug and immediately began teaching him about the big questions: "Mitch … You know that I'm dying,” Morrie asked, “Shall I tell you what it's like?" Their first Tuesday lesson had begun. Though Morrie’s body was wilting away, he felt lucky that death waited and gave him the chance to say goodbye. It allowed him to think uniquely—to perceive what matters in life. For him, death—though painful—is valuable because it teaches us how to live. It draws us to ourselves, each other, and nature as if for the first time.

Brainwashing works through repetition. America likes repetition. Owning more things is good. Building more wealth is good. Gaining more influence is good. More industry is good. “More is good. More is good.” Brainwashing of this kind works best in people with great emotional needs. If we are hungry for love, we accept substitutes. People’s general conversations reflect these fogged-up values. When we tell others about an exciting new possession or title, we expect to get a hug in return or a high five. However, prestige and material possessions are fleeting. We cannot take them with us after death, so they are no substitute for love, vulnerability, and friendship. 

“You know what really gives you satisfaction?” Morrie told Albom in one of their sessions, “Offering others what you have to give.” That is where life’s real value lies: in devoting ourselves to loving others, cultivating our communities, and creating something meaningful. These endeavors are not about money. If we try to get attention from rich people, they will simply scorn us; if we try to get praise from those below, they will envy us. But love connects us to all people and overwhelms material wealth. Moreover, giving to others doesn’t require talent or a high income, but an open heart. It requires that we pay attention to all the places in the world where people only need to be sung to or talked to.

One morning, Morrie enthusiastically told Albom that the night before, a local a cappella group had come to the house to perform. At this time in his life, music moved Morrie to tears. He had always loved simple pleasures: opera, singing, laughing, and dancing. Albom considered his teacher’s house: It looked the same as before, the same old TV, the same car, and the same silverware. Still, the house had transformed into an altogether different place during the last few months. Albom could sense that it was filled with love and communion. The atmosphere carried the tears and sincerity of many people—family, friends, colleagues, students, TV personalities, nurses, and a cappella groups. The room was brimming with wealth—the true kind.

For Morrie, the American cultural perspective on human dependency, aging, and funerals is all wrong and makes us feel isolated and empty. 

Lou Gehrig’s disease melts the nerves of the body as fire melts a candle. It begins melting the nerves in the legs and slowly works its way up into the lungs, arms, and shoulders.. In the final days, people with Lou Gehrig’s disease feel trapped as they lie awake inside an unmovable and obsolete body. People had to take Morrie to the bathroom, wipe his nose, shower him, and dress him. But Morrie accepted this dependence with bravery. “Our culture tells us we should be ashamed if we can’t wipe our own behind,” he said. “Forget what culture says.” Morrie found a familiarity to the whole thing. It was like going back to being a child. The way he saw it, most people did not get enough of that dependency. Though we don’t admit it, we all have a yearning to return to those days—to the feeling of being safe and unconditionally loved. 

Culture romanticizes youth and independence because it values the wrong things. Youth is not just about being beautiful and healthy. It has its own difficulties, which often include misery, ignorance, strife, and inadequacy. In a way, old age is the accumulation of every age before. At 65, one is both a 5-year-old and a 40-year-old. Morrie was proud of being old because he was every age up to his own. There was no need to be envious of younger people. He had been there himself. If we worry about getting older, we will always be unhappy because it will happen anyway. When we embrace our age, we stay present and cultivate our future. We build a satisfying, well-ordered life. 

This romanticization of youth influences the way we do funerals. In the last year of his  life, Morrie went to the funeral of a colleague who suddenly died of a heart attack. He thought the event was a waste. His friend would never hear the beautiful things his loved ones said. Morrie was not happy about it. Unlike his friend, death had given Morrie a warning. So he decided to take advantage of it. He called his closest friends and family and gathered them on a date for a “living funeral.” They all shared stories, cried, and laughed. Morrie shared his heart with everyone he loved and told them what they meant to him. 

American society offers plenty of resources on self-help in the form of books, diets, and advertisements, but it seldom provides clear answers about the meaning of life. As Morrie often noted, many of the people who visited him were more unhappy than he was, despite his condition. They emulated things that culture taught them about youth and independence, but these values made them feel dissatisfied and isolated. Hence Morrie was an advocate for cultural dissent. He taught Albom, “If the culture doesn’t work, don’t buy it.”

A sculpture of a man cast in bronze rested high on the shelf of Morrie’s office. An artist named Norman had created the sculpture of Morrie when he was 40. The men used to be close friends, and had spent much time together swimming and taking road trips.

Shortly after he created the sculpture, Norman and his wife moved to Chicago. Around that same time, Morrie’s wife, Charlotte, became ill and underwent a serious operation. Though Norman and his wife knew about the operation, they never reached out or asked how it went. Charlotte and Morrie were very hurt and decided to drop their friendship with Norman and his wife. Over the years, Norman tried to reconcile the damage, but Morrie never accepted the apology. Then, Norman died of cancer. Morrie wept while telling Albom the story. 

Morrie mourned the fact that he never forgave Norman. He also shared that he sometimes beat himself up for not writing more books and doing more in academia. 

“It’s not just other people we need to forgive, Mitch … We also need to forgive ourselves.”

Morrie taught Albom that regrets are not helpful. When we look back on our lives, we will point to things we should and should not have done and be tempted to be stuck in regret. But forgiveness to ourselves and others can mend all things and surpasses the economy of time and death.

On one of Albom’s visits, Morrie began violently coughing and jerking forward. His illness was growing and slowly creeping into his lungs. Morrie made himself stop and close his eyes. Then he told Albom: “What I’m doing now . . . is detaching myself from my experience.” Albom was confused. After all, his teacher had always advocated living life in a fully present, connected, and attentive way—not detaching. 

At first glance, “detaching” may appear antithetical to living life fully in the moment, with all the negative and positive emotions life brings. But Morrie saw detachment not as mentally checking out or cutting himself off from his feelings, but about becoming the master of his feelings instead of being mastered by them. Detachment is only possible after we have allowed ourselves to feel things. Instead of avoiding our feelings of love, loneliness, or grief, we should let them in and accept them as they are—in their plenitude. 

Once we detach, we realize the true nature of those feelings, what they mean, and how they feel in our bodies. Above all, we will realize that emotions are less powerful than we give them credit for. We are actually the masters of our emotions and it is possible to feel things while knowing that we are in control. Fully embracing feelings helps us see they are subordinate to us. We can master them and we can detach from them if we choose to. Paradoxically, this practice of detaching allows us to stay connected to life, instead of endlessly spiraling in our emotions.

On the worst occasions, Morrie’s lungs locked, and he was uncertain if his next breath would come. Anxiety, fear, and horror shivered down his back. Heat flooded his brain. “This is fear,” he would say, “Step away from it. Step away.” 

Let the tears come. Let the surge of love for another overflow. Let the pain and loneliness of death penetrate you. It won’t hurt you. It will only give you control of your emotions so you can say goodbye to the world without fear. At the moment of your death, you will be able to say, “This is my moment.”

Someone asked Morrie if he was worried about being forgotten after he died. He wasn't concerned. He felt his vocation as a teacher, his friendships with others, and his family's love for him would keep his memory alive. He told Albom, "Think of my voice and I'll be there."

Though we often forget it, life and death are equal parts of nature. Everyone born eventually dies. But love and relationships surpass nature. 

It takes strength to step away from the million egotistical things that consume our lives: jobs, careers, wealth, getting a new car, and so on. Morrie believed in being fully present with people. If he was talking to someone, he was thinking about them and everything else could wait. Though he was the one who was dying, many came to receive advice, to feel encouraged, and to feel heard and loved. Morrie felt lucky he could be that person for them. Life is too short for us to be in a hurry, worrying about petty things. Our energies should be spent on people, on nurturing them, because they are the ones with whom our love will live on.

On one of Albom's last visits, Morrie’s body was as small as a child's. He was eating less and less and his condition was declining. Albom understood that the end was coming. Morrie told Albom that a few nights before he dreamt of crossing a bridge into an unknown place. He felt as though he was prepared for the next stage of his life after death. Then a couple days later, Morrie had a choking spell that lasted for hours. He could not breathe and started to feel dizzy. Then a sudden peace came over him, and though he felt prepared to let go of life he decided to stay for a little longer. He told Albom this story to teach him one of the final lessons:  Love helps us come to peace with our entire lives. Once we have gained this peace, we are able to let go of life with complete acceptance.

Morrie Schwartz died on a Saturday morning on November 4th, 1995. His tombstone reads: "A Teacher to the Last."