Lessons from a Morgue

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how easy it is to lead and live at a distance.

Related to this, a story that has stayed with me—one I want to share—captures an experience that permanently altered how I see the world.

The moment came in a hospital morgue. I keep returning to its lesson:

“See for yourself.”

Years ago, I was invited by the head of pathology at a major medical center to observe an autopsy. He knew I had been deeply interested in brain research and offered me something no textbook could ever provide: a front-row seat to the real thing.

“You want to understand anatomy?” he said. “Come see it for yourself.”

So I did.

Fully garbed and masked, I found myself in a cold, tiled room, standing beside a man who, to put it delicately, was not going anywhere.

There is a chilling humility in watching as a human body is opened.

The pathologist that day—Jen was her name—began with a Y-incision, exposing the chest cavity. A few ribs were removed. Organ by organ, she examined the body with a kind of reverent efficiency, like a sculptor working backward.

The man had died of cancer, and the damage was visible. Jen identified the cancerous growths, pointing out the lesions mottling his liver and lungs.

At one point, she held up a liver that looked like it had been through a war. “This,” she said, “is what killed him.”

There was no guesswork. No theory. Just evidence, laid bare.

The autopsy was dramatic and sobering. But more than anything, it was deeply educational, not only because of the biological detail, but because of what it taught me about how to live and how to lead.

Jen didn’t speculate. She examined. And she showed me how to do the same. Not with scalpels, but with attention.

That autopsy taught me that leadership isn’t just about seeing, it’s about the willingness to look. To not flinch. To not paper over discomfort.

When I stood there, queasy and out of my element, staring into the aftermath of disease, I also felt deeply present.

Present to reality.

An autopsy is the purest form of truth-finding. You’re not relying on charts, stories, sanitized data, or someone else’s narrative. You’re looking, closely and personally, at what is.

Real leadership requires that kind of presence. It means showing up when things are already broken. It means having the guts to say, “Let’s open this up and see what really happened.”

The best leaders I know don’t hover above. They descend.

They visit the factory floor or work stations.

They ride along with sales reps.

They talk to interns.

They perform autopsies on failed projects, not to assign blame, but to understand. To learn. To see for themselves.

The same holds true in personal life.

How many of our beliefs—not just about others but about ourselves—reek from lack of inspection?

We inherit judgments, absorb hearsay, cling to outdated stories about people, places, even family members. Then we treat those stories as facts. I’ve seen this kind of unconscious delusion everywhere: in family businesses, in professional firms, and yes, in my own family.

But truth requires closeness.

If you want to know someone, don’t just read their résumé or believe the gossip. Do your own exploration. Sit down with them. Ask questions. Look them in the eye.

Autopsy comes from the Greek autopsia: "to see for yourself.”

Seeing for yourself is inconvenient. It takes time, vulnerability, and a willingness to question assumptions. But the payoff is authenticity. Clarity. And sometimes, revelation.

When you’re brave enough to move beyond appearances, you often discover something you never imagined. Something more complex, more human, and more honest than the tidy version you started with.

The autopsy I witnessed wasn’t just about the death of a man. It was about learning how to live, and lead, with eyes open.

So here’s the invitation: step into the room, even when it’s cold and uncomfortable.

Get close.

Make the incision.

Examine what’s real.

Lead by reality, not by rumor.

See for yourself.