We’ve had voluntary assisted dying in Western Australia for five years now. I wanted to know what we’ve learnt. What has having this choice changed about the way we die? And how are we talking about it?

With an ageing population, more of us will find ourselves having conversations about terminal illness, care, and what we want at the end. VAD may become part of that conversation around a hospital bed or at the kitchen table—ideally, before everyone’s too frightened to bring it up.

In 2026, I attended the International Conference on Assisted Dying in Brisbane and VADCON Melbourne. I spoke with health practitioners, read widely, and listened to families who have experienced VAD here in WA. I’ve been struck by the profound care involved, the obstacles faced, and the people who can sit with the hardest conversations most of us will ever have and still find room for warmth and a laugh. When my turn comes, I hope I’m in hands like theirs.

But some people’s turn comes far too young.

We tend to imagine these decisions belonging to old age, after a long life. But younger people are facing them too. People with plans. People who thought they had decades.

While researching, I spoke with Gina, whose thirty-three-year-old daughter, Robbi, accessed VAD at home in WA in 2022. Gina described her daughter’s death as peaceful, on her own terms, and “a gift.” But she also made me laugh. She suggested a campaign to help younger people talk about VAD—something like “tap and go.”

I wasn’t expecting that. A mum talking about losing her daughter, making me laugh. I kept thinking about them both. What happens when you’re thirty-three and your future is suddenly measured in months? How do you tell your mum, the woman who brought you into the world, that you want a say in when you leave it?

Those questions led me to create Harvey.

I wanted to write someone whose desire to live is enormous, and the people around him who have to work out how to be there for him, even when being there means saying goodbye. There’s immense grief in that, and practical arrangements nobody wants to make. But there is also humour, because people don’t stop being themselves when something terrible happens.

Like Harvey, I spend a lot of time wondering what it actually means to live a good life. How do we make it meaningful? How do we make sure we’ve truly helped the people standing next to us before our time is up?

In the end, maybe the stories we tell—and the ones we leave behind for the people we love—are all we’ve really got.

Life doesn’t come with instructions, and neither does leaving it. We are all just doing our best with absolutely no rehearsal. But theatre is the place where we gather in the dark to figure out the hardest parts of being human together. I wanted to write a play that doesn’t shy away from the beast, but shines a massive bloody light on the love surrounding it. Because even when time is short, this world is extraordinary. And the way we go about leaving it matters.

The Way We Go About It was developed with support from the 2026 Minderoo Artist Fund. A table read of the first draft was presented on 28 October 2026.