Suicide as a Service

We all grow up respecting the king of the jungle—the lion. We admire the mane, the roar, the dominance. But few talk about what happens when that king gets old, when his body slows down and a younger lion takes the pride. An aging male lion is often pushed out by stronger rivals, forced into a lonely, nomadic life where the glory of yesterday no longer protects him today. In many ways, that old lion looks a lot like the Hall of Fame NFL player whose phone has gone quiet—no more calls from coaches, brands, or fans, just memories of Sundays when stadiums shook his name.

For years, both the lion and the elite athlete live at the center of everything—territory, resources, attention, and reverence revolve around them. Then one day, a hit comes a little harder, a sprint feels a little slower, and the young bucks arrive hungry. Older male lions are edged out of the pride they once ruled; aging players are cut from rosters or priced out of the modern game. Both are still the same being inside, but the ecosystem around them decides they are no longer dominant, no longer essential, no longer “worth” the investment.

Once ousted, the old lion wanders the margins of the savanna, living with less status, fewer protections, and more isolation. The retired NFL great can experience the same: no locker room, no team flights, no structured purpose, and sometimes no financial cushion. The social interactions that used to be automatic—teammates, coaches, media, fans—fade, just as the lion loses the constant presence of his pride. What used to be brotherhood becomes distance. What used to be roar becomes quiet.

That is why the story of aging and relevance matters in a conversation about “Suicide as a Service.” Last week we saw in the news the Kessler twins’ decision to die together through assisted suicide heartbreaking choice that casts a harsh light on the psychological toll of our times. Alice and Ellen Kessler, iconic performers aged 89, chose a planned, joint assisted suicide in their home near Munich, Germany. Their final act is much more than a personal decision—it’s a mirror held up to society grappling with loneliness, economic instability, and shifting ideas about life and death.

Work is deeply entwined with identity. When someone loses a job, they lose far more than income; they lose purpose, belonging, and self-worth. This void can spiral into alcoholism, drug abuse, domestic violence, and ultimately suicide. These problems hit men especially hard, who often tie their sense of self to what they do. Before Thanksgiving 2025, approximately 153,074 job cuts were announced in October alone, pushing the grand total layoffs for the year beyond 1.1 million. This isn’t just a number—it’s millions of people and their families struggling to survive.

The link between unemployment and suicide is well documented. Losing a job can sharply raise the risk of suicide, especially for those without a safety net. Veterans, people of color, and disabled individuals—already vulnerable—have been hit hardest by recent cuts. Studies show debt, housing insecurity, and financial stress correlate strongly with suicide risk in wealthy nations where living costs never stop rising. The emotional impact of no longer being “productive” or valued by society can make dying feel like the only dignified choice.

In Germany, where the Kessler twins lived, assisted suicide has been legalized under strict conditions following a 2020 Constitutional Court ruling affirming an individual’s right to end their life autonomously. The twins had been members of the German Society for Humane Dying, and had planned their exit for over a year, reflecting one of the few places in the world where suicide can be scheduled almost like a “service”. This normalization of “Suicide as a Service” comes with ethical questions: Are people choosing death because they feel they are a burden? Are existing mental health and social support systems failing? Or do we simply give up?

Movies like Logan’s Run and The Humanity Bureau dramatize a terrifying future where humans are discarded once deemed unproductive. In real life, the Kessler twins’ choice echoes this grim reality—once you’re past your prime or face illness, poverty, or isolation, society’s compassion fades. Assisted suicide becomes less about autonomy and more about economic despair coupled with loneliness. It is the old lion all over again: once feared and adored, now quietly pushed to the edge of the herd.

As someone wrestling daily with the future of work and what happens to those left behind by automation and economic upheaval, assisted suicide looks like a symptom of a deeply transactional society. When life becomes a subscription model you can’t cancel, and the cost of simply existing crushes dignity, death can start to look like leverage—a way to reclaim agency when none seems left. The aging NFL veteran, the retired factory worker, the laid-off middle manager, the forgotten entertainer—each can feel like that exiled lion, watching the next generation eat first.

This is a collective challenge. We must build societies that value people beyond productivity, offer true safety nets, and foster connection, not just efficiency. That means honoring the old lion as much as the young one—celebrating wisdom, experience, and humanity even after the spotlight dims. The Kessler twins’ legacy is a call to act on urgent mental health, social justice, and economic stability—not just for a few, but for all of us.
If you or anyone close to you feels overwhelmed, reach out—to friends, professionals, or helplines where available. Your value is not a line item on a balance sheet, and choosing life should always be possible without feeling like the hardest choice.