COLUMN | How Human Composting in SoDo Challenges Class-Based Death Care

In life, class determines opportunity. In death, it determines your legacy. For centuries, this cold calculation has decided how we say goodbye to our loved ones and how they're laid to rest, and increasingly, environmental advocates and funeral directors alike are asking whether we can do better.

The answer, according to a 15-year-old Seattle-based start-up called Recompose, lies in a process that sounds almost too simple: turning human remains into soil. But behind this quiet transformation is a radical challenge to an entire system that has long treated dignified death as a luxury good.

The Price We Pay to Say Goodbye

The average funeral in America costs between $7,000 and $12,000. For low-income families, this isn't just an expense; it's a barrier to agency. People who have wealth in life often have burials that reflect that wealth, whether it be a mausoleum or the best spot at a cemetery. But for others, funding a loved one's funeral could cause financial strain, leading 1 in 3 Americans to take on debt to cover the costs.

This inequality extends beyond mere economics. The environmental cost can be equally excessive, from carbon emissions to concrete boxes full of toxic chemicals. While cremation is often perceived as an environmentally friendly alternative to burial, it produces significant pollution through fossil fuel combustion, releasing harmful emissions, including particulate matter, organic pollutants, and heavy metals. Research shows that a single cremation generates carbon emissions equivalent to a car traveling over 2,050 miles, with nitrogen dioxide fumes during the 75-minute process matching emissions from thousands of vehicles.

In addition, traditional cremation leaves behind ashes with a pH level so alkaline that it can impact plant growth in the area. Centuries-old burial grounds or that special place where you spread grandpa's ashes could become sterile earth, unable to support new life. Yet even these options come at a price point that burdens many. They may not feel adequate for a generation increasingly conscious of its ecological footprint, or for families already struggling financially.

Recompose's alternative is straightforward: a process called natural organic reduction, where human remains are placed in a vessel with wood chips, alfalfa, and straw. Over roughly 8 to 12 weeks, accelerated decomposition transforms the body into nutrient-rich soil. The result is staggering in its simplicity: approximately 30 double-walled brown paper bags of usable earth, ready to nourish new growth.

Walking in, you notice the raw wood tables and leather furniture, the earth tones of the paint, the plants, and the overall soothing nature of the space. Despite the industrial environment outside, inside feels like a spa. And if you're wondering how it smells, it doesn't. Not until you're in the greenhouse, where it smells like hay and alfalfa.

"For each person that chooses human composting over traditional burial and traditional cremation, they're going to save … carbon from being emitted into the atmosphere," says Laura Sullivan Cassidy, who does outreach and community work at Recompose. "When this is as ubiquitous as cremation, each of those individual carbon savings really matters." The process uses roughly "80% less electricity overall" than cremation, she says. But the real innovation isn't mechanical, it's existential. As Sullivan Cassidy puts it: "Choosing this kind of care is choosing to lessen a burden."

The Gathering Space welcomes both in-person and virtual attendees for personalized farewell services. Sullivan Cassidy notes that the facility has hosted ceremonies from all major faiths, including the "Cedar" room designed for ritual body preparation. Services range from traditional religious formats to secular and nature-based alternatives.

Breaking the Cycle

Innovation, however, means little if it remains accessible only to the wealthy. Recompose has built equity directly into its model through two mechanisms: a community fund and a sliding scale.

The community fund, supported by investor contributions and charitable donations, asks no questions about financial need. "There's no barrier," Sullivan Cassidy emphasizes. "You're not asked to prove your need." Families who can afford the full cost are encouraged to pay more, knowing their investment directly subsidizes care for others. In some cases, Recompose has provided composting services for as little as $300, covering remaining costs from the fund.

This isn't charity, it's infrastructure. And it addresses what might otherwise become a cruel irony: a sustainable burial method that only the privileged could afford. That risk is precisely why the organization has prioritized access from the start.

Beyond economics, Recompose has recognized that a cultural shift requires education. The organization conducts around five in-person tours monthly, alongside virtual options, reaching audiences most funeral homes never consider. "We've done a series of talks with public libraries, book clubs, law firms, and senior communities," Sullivan Cassidy notes.

This educational work carries particular weight because, as Sullivan Cassidy observes, "nobody has a paradigm for this yet. It's both a responsibility and a privilege to help shape one."

One of the most poetic elements of Recompose's model is its land donation program. Through partnerships with four nonprofit land conservation organizations in the region, families can direct a portion or all of their soil toward projects that desperately need restoration: wetlands rehabilitation, prairie reconstruction, and forest regeneration. For a modest additional cost, included in base pricing, the remains of a loved one can become part of something visibly alive and growing.

"All the images [on our walls] are from our land partners," Sullivan Cassidy says, pointing to photos of forests and meadows. "So it's a way of seeing where your people might end up." She emphasizes that "anybody that's composted has ... the ability to contribute to one of those beautiful projects," and that unlike ashes, with soil, "anytime anybody brings soil anywhere ... absolutely no negative repercussions are going to come to that."

Recompose's current capacity is roughly 150 clients annually. But the organization's ambitions extend far beyond Seattle. While the funeral home is based out of SoDo, Recompose offers its services to families in all 50 states by working with funeral homes to provide transportation of those who have passed to Seattle. And founders envision a future where human composting becomes as accessible as cremation, available everywhere, affordable to anyone.

"From the very beginning, it was clear this has to be as ubiquitous as cremation," Sullivan Cassidy explains. "That's a 20- to 30-year goal. It's going to take a while."

Making it happen will require systemic support. She asks, what if major employers offered human composting as an HR death benefit? "What if every employee at Amazon got that?" Sullivan Cassidy muses. As larger companies develop their own versions of this care, competition will drive down costs and expand access. Environmental justice, in this vision, could become a standard practice rather than a premium option.

A Final Gift

Many people drawn to human composting describe the same feeling: a mismatch between conventional options and their values. "Those options just never sounded right to me" is how one prospective client put it. "I could never picture myself being buried or cremated. But I love the outdoors. I love to be in my garden."

For these individuals, and, increasingly, for many grappling with environmental responsibility and economic inequality, human composting offers something deeper than a method. It offers a story. Not the finality of ash, but the perpetual becoming of soil. Not a monument to individual wealth, but a contribution to collective healing.

"Death gives us entry points," Sullivan Cassidy reflects. "There's this beautiful, bright, sunny, new, growing tree included in the conversation, rather than just this kind of finality. I am somebody that thinks really pretty broadly about what changes when death is normalized and talked about and when grief is something that we all have space and time to do, and I think the kind of trickle-downs from that are endless."

In the end, human composting challenges a system that has long treated death like everything else: as something to be commodified and dealt with. Instead, it suggests that our final act might be our most generous, not a transaction defined by what we could afford in life, but a gift to the earth itself, available to anyone willing to imagine it differently.