Linda Brossi Murphy knew exactly how she wanted to be remembered. So instead of leaving that responsibility to someone else, the Massachusetts woman took matters into her own hands and wrote her own obituary, creating a piece of writing that would touch millions after her death.
The 60-year-old from Boylston passed away on September 21, 2025, following a battle with Bulbar ALS, a particularly cruel form of amyotrophic lateral sclerosis that robbed her of her ability to speak and swallow. But true to form, Murphy refused to let the disease have the final word on how her story would be told.
Her obituary opens with a line that instantly captures attention: “Well, if you are reading this obituary, it looks like I’m dead. WOW, it actually happened. I died of FOMO due to complications of Bulbar ALS.”
FOMO, for the uninitiated, stands for “fear of missing out,” and it’s perhaps the most fitting cause of death for a woman whose daughter describes as someone who wasn’t just the life of the party, but was the party itself.
A Woman Who Refused to Be Defined by Disease
Murphy’s journey with illness began long before her ALS diagnosis. In 2012, she was diagnosed with breast cancer, a battle she not only won but turned into an opportunity to help others. She wrote a book titled “F-Off Cancer,” a tongue-in-cheek guide that showed people they could still enjoy life while fighting the disease. The experience was so impactful that it inspired her daughter, Justine Hastings, to become a nurse.
But cancer was just the opening act. When Murphy began experiencing symptoms like slurred speech and trouble swallowing in 2022, she didn’t wait around for doctors to figure it out. She walked into Massachusetts General Hospital with a bold declaration: “I have ALS. Prove me wrong.”
They couldn’t. After running every test possible, doctors confirmed what Murphy already knew. Hastings recalls this moment with a mixture of pride and pain: “That is the most ‘my mom’ thing she has ever done.”
The Superpowers of Linda Murphy
In her self-penned tribute, Murphy wrote about having two superpowers. The first, she noted with characteristic humor, was that she could drink as much as she wanted and never get a hangover. “The real wonder is why I didn’t die of liver failure,” she quipped in her obituary.
She wrote these words about six months before her death, when she could still type with her hands. By the end, she could only communicate through a few hand signals, trapped in a body that no longer responded to her commands.
The reality of living with Bulbar ALS was far from the lighthearted tone she struck in her writing. Murphy detailed the devastating impact of losing her voice: “My stupid Bulbar ALS got me to the sad point of not being able to talk. Never speaking means never being able to say, ‘I love you!’ It means not being able to call my Mr. BoJangles over for a snack, and it means not being able to order at the Dunkin’ drive through.”
Mr. BoJangles, for the record, was her beloved dog, one of the small joys she could no longer fully engage with as the disease progressed.
The Daily Struggles Hidden Behind a Smile
Food, once a source of pleasure and social connection, became another painful reminder of what she’d lost. Murphy wrote candidly about the torture of sitting at the table while others enjoyed “juicy burgers hot off the grill, heaping piles of Chinese food, a healthy portion of pasta Alfredo, or Chipotle,” while she could only “smile and act like I’m enjoying my bowl of puréed baby mush.”
Despite the humor woven throughout her obituary, Hastings revealed that her mother’s struggles were profound and often hidden. “The hardest thing up until the end is that people would say she looks so amazing. ‘Oh, you look great! You’re smiling! You’re not sick! You’re okay!’ But behind closed doors, the struggle was so real,” Hastings explained.
Murphy herself acknowledged this in her writing: “Living had gotten to be such an overwhelming burden every day, day after day. I always did my very best not to let anyone know ‘the back story’ of my daily suffering and struggles with ALS. Hubby and I just plowed through each day trying to put our best selves out there for the public eye. Hair and make up done, smiles on.”
Even her BiPap machine, a device she needed to help her breathe at night, became fodder for humor. She wrote about how “hose, my bipap, moved into the marital bed” about a year and a half before her death, joking that she and her husband “became a throuple.”
A Final Message of Kindness
But Murphy’s obituary wasn’t just about her struggles or even her humor. It was a call to action, a final plea for people to treat each other better. She wrote: “Please be kind to everyone: the telemarketer, the grocery clerk, the Dunkin’s staff, the tailgater, your family, your friends. Speak nicely and positively. Is there really ever a reason to be negative? I don’t think so.”
In keeping with her commitment to spreading joy, Murphy had a specific request about how people should honor her memory. “PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE don’t waste money on flowers,” she wrote. “Buy a bunch of scratch tickets and give them out to strangers along your way. Make people happy, that is the best way that you can honor my memory.”
This wasn’t just a random suggestion. According to Hastings, Murphy regularly gave scratch tickets to strangers while she was alive, and the family plans to continue the tradition in her honor. It was vintage Murphy: finding small, unexpected ways to bring a little happiness into someone’s day.
Planning the Perfect Goodbye
Murphy didn’t stop at writing her obituary. She planned every detail of her farewell, from picking out her own casket to choosing the music for her funeral. She even planned a dance party in her honor, because of course she did.
Hastings shared one of her favorite comments about her mother’s obituary: “I just read this, and I just wish I could have had a glass of wine with her.” It’s a sentiment that captures the essence of what Murphy created: a piece of writing so full of personality that strangers felt they knew her, liked her, and would have wanted to be her friend.
A Final Act of Generosity
In perhaps her most significant final act, Murphy donated her brain and spinal cord for ALS research. Even in death, she wanted to contribute to understanding the disease that had taken so much from her, hoping that future patients might benefit from what researchers could learn.
Her advice to those still living was simple and powerful: “My advice is to say yes to the party, the trip, the adventure, and while you’re there, please raise a glass to me and cheers.”
Going Viral on Her Own Terms
Hastings revealed something that makes Murphy’s story even more fitting: “Honestly, she wanted to go viral.” And viral she went. Her obituary was shared thousands of times across social media platforms, picked up by news outlets across the country, and touched the hearts of people who never had the chance to meet her.
The obituary struck a chord because it was authentic in a world that often feels manufactured. Murphy didn’t sugarcoat her struggles, but she didn’t let them define her either. She wrote with humor about the absurdities of her situation while acknowledging the very real pain underneath.
Murphy was raised in Framingham and lived in Boylston, but her impact has spread far beyond Massachusetts. Her words have resonated with ALS patients and their families, cancer survivors, and anyone who has faced their own mortality. They’ve also reached people simply trying to live better lives, inspired by her message of kindness and her determination to say yes to life’s adventures.
She died peacefully on a Sunday evening, surrounded by the people who loved her most. According to her obituary, she was “loved, comforted, and hugged until my last breath by my beautiful family and a couple of my besties.”
A Legacy of Laughter and Light
In the days and weeks following her death, Murphy’s obituary has done exactly what she hoped it would: it’s made people happy, made them think, and made them want to be kinder. It’s reminded people that life is short and unpredictable, that humor can coexist with pain, and that how we choose to face our struggles matters.
Murphy’s story is a reminder that even in our darkest moments, we have agency over our narrative. She couldn’t control the disease that was stealing her life, but she could control how she wanted to be remembered. And she chose to be remembered as someone who found joy, spread kindness, and never stopped being herself, even when that self was trapped in a failing body.
Her daughter summed it up perfectly: “She always wanted to say, ‘As long as I can be positive in my little world, maybe it can spread.'”
Based on the viral response to her obituary, it’s safe to say that Murphy’s positivity has spread far beyond her little world. Through her words, she continues to touch lives, make people laugh, and remind them what really matters. She died at just 60 years old, far too young, but she packed more living into those years than many people manage in twice that time.
So take Murphy’s advice: say yes to the party, the trip, the adventure. Be kind to the telemarketer, the grocery clerk, the person who cuts you off in traffic. Buy some scratch tickets and hand them to strangers. And when you’re out there living your best life, raise a glass to Linda Brossi Murphy, the woman who died of FOMO but made sure she’d never really be forgotten.
Because if there’s one thing Murphy proved, it’s that you don’t have to be alive to be unforgettable. You just have to be authentically, unapologetically, beautifully yourself.
