Planning for a Home Death: What You Need to Know

For most of human history, people died at home. In their own beds, surrounded by familiar walls and the people who loved them. Somewhere along the way, dying moved into hospitals and facilities, and we collectively forgot that home is still an option.

Guys.  It is still very much an option.

More and more families are choosing home death, whether that means actively planning for it or simply deciding not to transfer their loved one to a facility when the time comes. If you're considering it, here's what you actually need to know before you find yourself in the middle of it unprepared.

First: It's Legal

Yes, you can die at home. Yes, in most cases, someone can be with you when it happens. No, you do not automatically need to call 911.  (please don’t, in fact.  Planned dying is not an emergency)

But I get it.  We've been so conditioned to treat death as a medical emergency that the idea of simply... letting it happen peacefully at home can feel illegal, or at least wrong somehow. It isn't.

If your loved one is under hospice care, the process is especially straightforward. Hospice will walk you through exactly what to do when the time comes, who to call, and what happens next. No ambulance required unless you want one.

If your loved one is not on hospice, the process is a little more involved, but still very doable. Knowing the steps ahead of time is everything.  (this is where a death doula can help!!)

Get Hospice Involved Early

If a home death is something you want, one of the most important things you can do is bring hospice in sooner rather than later. Families often wait longer than they need to, sometimes because it feels like giving up, sometimes because no one clearly explained what hospice actually offers.

Hospice does not mean abandoning hope. It means shifting focus to comfort, dignity, and quality of life. And practically speaking, having hospice involved means you have a team, equipment, medications, and a 24-hour nurse line available to you. It means someone to call at 3 a.m. when something changes and you don't know what to do.

That support is invaluable when you're planning for someone to die at home.

Set Up the Space Thoughtfully

You don't need to turn your living room into a medical suite, but a little preparation goes a long way toward making everyone more comfortable, including your loved one and yourself.

Think about the bed. A hospital bed, which hospice can often provide, makes it much easier to reposition someone, manage pain, and provide physical care. It also protects your own back, which matters more than people think after days or weeks of caregiving.

Think about access. Is the room easy for others to move through? Is there a comfortable chair nearby for whoever will be sitting with them? Are the things that bring your person comfort close at hand, their favorite blanket, photos, music, a candle?

Think about practical supplies. Hospice will provide many of them, but things like disposable gloves, bed pads, lip moisturizer, and a small cooler for medications can make a meaningful difference in day-to-day care.

Talk to Everyone in the House

If there are other people living in the home, including children, they need to be part of the conversation at a level appropriate for their age and understanding. A home death can be a profound and even beautiful experience. It can also be frightening if people don't know what to expect.

Talk about what the dying process might look like. Talk about what sounds or physical changes are normal. Talk about what everyone's role will be and give people permission to step out if they need to.

Informed people are calmer people. Calm is contagious, and it matters deeply in those final hours.

Know What Happens After the Death

This is the part families are often least prepared for, and it's important.

When your person dies at home under hospice care, you call hospice first. They will come to pronounce the death and handle the necessary paperwork. You are not required to remove the body immediately. You have time. Many families spend an hour or several hours with their person after the death, sitting with them, maybe even bathing and redressing them, saying goodbye, allowing the reality to settle.

When you're ready, you call the funeral home you've arranged in advance. And yes, arranging that in advance matters. You do not want to be making that decision in the fog of fresh grief.

It Can Be a Gift

Home death is not for every family or every situation. But for those who choose it thoughtfully and prepare well, it can be one of the most intimate and meaningful experiences of a lifetime.

Dying at home, in a familiar space, with loved ones nearby, is not a step backward. For a lot of people, it's exactly the ending they always hoped for.

And helping someone get there? That's one of the greatest acts of love there is.

If you need more help or guidance on this please reach out.  I’d be honored to help.  

Grandma’s China

It’s the hot topic among end of life workers, decluttering experts and minimalists these days. The china. And it seems universal: no one wants it.

As the older generations are downsizing, moving into smaller homes, condos or assisted living situations, they’re faced with the impossible task of offloading heirlooms that no one wants. There’s such little demand and high supply you can’t GIVE this stuff away. People aren’t hosting the fancy dinners as often and no one has the china hutch with the dishes we only use on special occasions, nor the china within. Heck about a decade back mom even stopped using the china at Thanksgiving because handwashing all that stuff was a nightmare. We went to paper plates.

When my parents downsized to a condo a couple years back, they sold off the dining room set and were baffled that it was basically worthless and they made practically no money on that sale. I tried my best to explain but their generation has a very different view on belongings than we do.

But back to the china.

I was in the same camp. I told mom I had zero interest in any of it. I’m a proud minimalist, and don’t hold attachment to physical items. She knew this. But she just did not have the heart to get rid of it. Guys….she had THREE SETS OF CHINA. Her mom’s, her great aunt’s and hers/dad’s from their wedding. She was able to offload her great aunt’s to one of her nephews, but this left the other two. (My niece expressed mild interest in hers/dad’s.) “I know it’s stupid for this to sit in boxes in the basement but I just can’t. When I’m gone, do whatever you want with it.”

Then she was gone.

I had a half a mind to take it all home and just rage smash it all in the street while deep in my grief. I wanted to shatter those dishes like her death shattered my heart. Instead….I brought it home.

I took each piece out of the boxes, all carefully wrapped by mom’s loving hands and laid them all out. This was clearly more than one set. 12 tiny little cups, 15 tiny saucers, 13 dinner plates….finger bowls? sigh Odd numbers and so many different sizes of plates, and who in god’s name uses a gravy boat anymore?

Screw it.

I took the boxes and bubble wrap and wrapped up my everyday Corningware and posted it on Facebook and set all of grandma’s china in my cabinets. (Save for half the plates that are back in a box in MY basement because OHMYGODSOMANYPLATES) I’m using the tiny little cups for my coffee in the morning, I’m using the fancy plates for my afternoon snackies, I’m using the dinner plates for….well…dinner. (Although I’m not entirely sure what to use the finger bowls for.) And I’m chucking the lot into the damn dishwasher. If they break, they break. (God knows I have enough plates for 3 lifetimes. SERIOUSLY WHY SO MANY PLATES?!?!) Life’s too short for handwashing dishes and why not be fancy with my morning coffee?

I use the fancy crystal glassware I was gifted for my first wedding for everyday drinks, and I put those in the dishwasher too. I have no children to burden with these items so why not use them now and enjoy them?

And when I plow through a plate of salt and vinegar chips or cheez-its, I can think about my grandmother. And all the Thanksgiving dinners we ate on those plates. All the laughter, dad’s blessings over hearty feasts, drunk ex husbands ruining an evening, off color jokes from the uncle. Those large holidays have dimmed to small gatherings on paper plates, but my solo dinners of reheated hamburger helper can feel a little more fancy now.

(My actual snack of a Zebra cake and BBQ chips while writing this blog)

Navigating the Healthcare System During End-of-Life Care

If you've ever sat in a hospital waiting room while someone you love is down the hall, you already know that the healthcare system was not exactly designed with grief in mind. It was designed for efficiency. For treating illness and moving on to the next patient.

Which means that when someone is dying, and the goal is no longer to treat but to comfort, the system can feel like it's speaking a language you never learned.

Here's a crash course in what you actually need to know.

Understand Who Is On the Team and What They Do

One of the most disorienting parts of end-of-life care is the sheer number of people involved. Doctors, nurses, social workers, chaplains, case managers, specialists. Everyone has a role, and not all of them communicate with each other as well as you'd hope.

Take notes. Write down names and titles. Ask each person what their specific role is and who the best point of contact is for questions. In a hospital or inpatient setting, the attending physician is usually your main contact for medical decisions, but the nurse is often the most accessible and most informed about day-to-day changes.

Don't assume information is being passed along. Confirm it yourself.

Having a death doula on hand to help herd all these cats can be invaluable.

Learn the Language

Medical terminology during end-of-life care can be genuinely confusing, and the confusion often leads to decisions being made without full understanding of what's actually being agreed to.

A few terms worth knowing:

DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) means that if the heart stops, no CPR will be performed. This is not the same as "do not treat." It simply means no resuscitation attempt.

Comfort care or palliative care means the focus is on managing symptoms and quality of life, not curing the illness. It can happen alongside curative treatment.

Goals of care is a phrase you'll hear often. It refers to the conversation about what the patient wants, what matters most to them, and what medical interventions are aligned with those wishes.

If something is unclear, ask for it to be explained again. Then ask again. You are not being difficult. You are advocating.

You Have the Right to Ask Questions and Push Back

This is the part a lot of families don't realize until it's too late.

You can ask for a family meeting with the care team. You can request a second opinion. You can ask what happens if you choose not to pursue a recommended treatment. You can ask what dying will look like if a certain intervention is stopped. You can say "I need more time before we make this decision" and that is a complete sentence.

Hospitals have patient advocates and social workers specifically to help families navigate exactly this kind of situation. Ask for them. Use them. That's what they're there for.

And if something feels wrong, say so. Not every family member who pushes back is being difficult. Sometimes they're the only one paying close enough attention.

Get Paperwork in Order Before a Crisis

The worst time to figure out advance directives is in the middle of an emergency. The best time was years ago. The second best time is right now.

An advance directive or living will outlines what kind of medical care a person wants if they can no longer speak for themselves. A healthcare power of attorney designates someone to make those decisions on their behalf.

In Ohio, there's also a document called a DNR Comfort Care order, which is specifically for people with serious illness and communicates wishes to emergency responders and care teams outside of a hospital setting.

If these documents don't exist yet, a social worker, attorney, or yes, a death doula can help your family understand the options and get them completed. Do not wait.

Transitions Between Care Settings Are Often the Hardest

Moving from a hospital to a rehab facility to home to hospice involves a lot of handoffs, and handoffs are where things fall through the cracks. Medications get missed. Information gets lost. Families get contradictory instructions from different providers.

Every time there is a transition, ask for a full medication list, a summary of the current care plan, and clear instructions for who to contact if something changes. Don't leave a new facility or setting without knowing exactly who your point of contact is.

If your loved one is being discharged to home with hospice, make sure the hospice team has been contacted and a visit is scheduled before or shortly after arrival. There should be no gap in support.

You Don't Have to Do This Alone

The healthcare system is complicated on a good day. During end-of-life care, when emotions are high and decisions feel enormous, it can feel completely overwhelming.

A death doula can sit with you in those waiting rooms. Help you prepare questions before a care team meeting. Translate what was just said in that conversation that left you more confused than when you walked in. Advocate alongside you when your voice feels too small or too shaky to carry the weight.

You don't need to become a medical expert to navigate this well. You just need support, information, and someone in your corner who isn't afraid of any of it.

That help exists. Please reach out and use it.

How to Choose a Hospice You Can Actually Trust

Nobody should have to fight for better care while their person is dying.

But it happens more than it should. Families assume hospice is just something the hospital arranges, that all providers are roughly the same, that there isn't really a choice involved. And then they find themselves in the middle of one of the hardest experiences of their lives with a team that isn't showing up, literally or emotionally, and no idea they had the power to do anything about it.

You have more power than you think. Let's talk about how to use it.

Hospice Is Not Automatically Assigned to You

This surprises a lot of families. When a doctor recommends hospice, they may refer you to a specific agency, but that referral is not a requirement. It is a suggestion.  And it’s possible they’re getting a kickback from the hospice they refer you to, bear that in mind too.

You are allowed to research your options. You are allowed to ask questions before signing anything. You are allowed to choose a different provider than the one recommended, and you are allowed to switch providers after you've started if the care isn't meeting your needs.

Hospice agencies are not all created equal. Quality, staffing, responsiveness, and culture can vary significantly from one organization to the next, even within the same city.

Questions to Ask Before You Choose

When you're evaluating a hospice agency, treat it like an interview. Because it is one.

Some questions worth asking:

Are you Medicare certified? Medicare certification requires agencies to meet federal standards for care. It's a baseline, not a guarantee of quality, but it matters.

What is your nurse-to-patient ratio? Staffing levels directly affect how responsive a team can be. If a nurse is managing an enormous caseload, your calls may not get returned as quickly as you need.

Who do we call after hours, and how quickly will someone respond? A good hospice has 24-hour support. Find out if that means a real nurse picks up the phone or if it goes to a general answering service.

Will we have a consistent team, or will different people rotate through? Consistency matters. A lot. Having the same nurse and aide who know your person, their preferences, and their condition is completely different from meeting a new face every visit.

What services are included? Hospice should cover nursing visits, aide services, social work, chaplain support, medications related to the terminal diagnosis, and medical equipment. Know what's included before you sign.

How do you handle a situation where we're unhappy with a specific caregiver? This one is important. Ask it directly. A good agency will have a clear and non-defensive answer.

Look Up Their Track Record

Medicare publishes quality data on hospice agencies through a tool called Care Compare at medicare.gov. You can look up agencies in your area and compare them on metrics like how often they provided the right care, how families rated their experience, and whether they've had any compliance issues.

It takes about five minutes and it's worth every one of them.

You can also ask around. Palliative care teams, hospital social workers, and yes, death doulas often know which local agencies have strong reputations and which ones generate complaints. Don't be shy about asking people who work in this space what they've observed.

Ask a local doula too!  We know who’s on the up and up and who may have failed a previous client.

Know Your Rights If Something Goes Wrong

If a hospice provider is not delivering on what was promised, you do not have to accept it.

You can request a different nurse or aide. Agencies have multiple staff members and you are within your rights to ask for someone who is a better fit. You don't even need a dramatic reason. "This isn't working for our family" is enough.

You can file a complaint. Every hospice agency has a process for this, and your state also has a hospice licensing board that accepts complaints.

You can switch agencies entirely. If the care is consistently poor, you can discharge from one hospice and enroll with another. Your hospice team should be able to facilitate this, and if they won't help, a hospital social worker or patient advocate can.

Switching is not starting over. Your loved one's care continues. You simply have a new team.

Trust Your Gut

When you meet with a hospice team for the first time, notice how they make you feel.

Do they rush through the intake paperwork or do they slow down and actually talk to you? Do they look at your person as a human being or as a case number? Do they answer your questions directly or deflect?

End-of-life care requires trust. If something feels off in that first meeting, pay attention to that feeling. You are not being too picky. You are protecting someone you love during one of the most vulnerable seasons of their life.

The right hospice team will feel like a hand on your shoulder. Not one more thing to manage.

A Note to Anyone Who Has Already Been Through a Bad Experience

If your family went through what so many families go through, showing up for someone they loved with a hospice team that let them down, I want you to know that was not how it was supposed to go. You deserved better. Your person deserved better.

And if you're not there yet but heading in that direction, please use this information. Ask the questions. Look up the ratings. Trust your instincts.

Nobody should have to demand basic kindness while they're saying goodbye.

If you need help looking for the right care please reach out!

When You Grieve Differently Than Your Siblings

You all lost the same person. So why does it feel like you're living on completely different planets?

You're crying every day and your brother hasn't shed a tear. Your sister wants to talk about Mom constantly and you can barely say her name out loud yet. Someone wants to clean out the house immediately and someone else would like to leave everything exactly as it is until further notice, possibly forever. One of you is holding the whole family together with both hands and one of you has completely disappeared into their own life and isn't returning texts.

And underneath all of it, this low hum of something that feels a lot like anger, hurt, or betrayal. The specific sting of grieving next to someone who is doing it completely differently than you are.

Welcome to sibling grief. It is a lot.

Same loss, completely different experience

Here's the thing that gets lost in the fog of early grief: you did not all lose the same person.

I mean, you did. Same human, same death, same funeral. But your relationship with that person was entirely your own. Your memories, your wounds, your history, your version of who they were and what they meant, that belongs only to you. Your brother's relationship with your dad was shaped by twenty-five years of interactions you weren't in the room for. Your sister's grief is filtered through a bond that had its own language, its own unresolved chapters, its own particular tenderness.

You are all grieving a loss. You are not grieving the same loss.

This reframe does not make the conflict disappear. But it does make it make a little more sense.

The greatest hits of sibling grief conflict

Let's just name them. These are the ones that come up again and again.

The Stuff. Someone wants to divide it immediately and someone wants to keep everything and someone already took the thing you wanted and nobody talked about it first. Belongings carry so much weight when someone dies. They become proxies for love, for fairness, for who mattered most. Fights about furniture are almost never actually about furniture.

The Caregiver Rift. If one sibling did the heavy lifting of caregiving, that sibling is often exhausted, grieving, and quietly (or loudly) furious that they did it largely alone. The siblings who weren't there may be carrying their own guilt about that. Both of those things are painful. Neither automatically makes someone the villain, even when it feels that way.

The Performer vs. The Disappearer. One person holds the family together, handles the logistics, makes the calls, keeps showing up. One person goes quiet, pulls back, handles their grief privately and internally. The performer often reads this as abandonment. The disappearer often doesn't know how to be witnessed in their pain. Neither style is wrong. Both feel incredibly lonely.

Grief timelines that don't match. You're still in the thick of it six months later and your sibling seems to have moved on. Or you've found your footing and your sibling is falling apart and you don't have the capacity to hold them right now. Grief doesn't run on a shared schedule and it can create a painful kind of distance when you're not in the same place at the same time.

What this conflict is often really about

Grief cracks us open. And when we're cracked open, every old family dynamic, every unhealed wound, every years-old role we got assigned in childhood, comes rushing back in.

The responsible one. The difficult one. The favorite. The forgotten one. The one who always had to hold it together. The one who always got to fall apart.

You thought you'd outgrown those roles. Then a parent died and suddenly you're sixteen again at the kitchen table, and somehow it's the same argument you've always had, just wearing a different shirt.

Family grief doesn't create dysfunction. It reveals the dysfunction that was already there, waiting.

How to survive grieving next to people who are doing it differently

You are not required to grieve in the same way, on the same timeline, with the same expression. That was never the deal, even if it felt like it was supposed to be.

A few things that can help, even a little:

Lower the expectation that your siblings will be your primary support right now. They are in the water too. They may not have a hand to reach back. Finding support outside the immediate family, a grief group, a coach, a therapist, a friend who knew your person, can take some of the pressure off relationships that are already strained.

Say the thing carefully, when you're ready. Not in the hot moment, not over text. But if something is sitting between you and a sibling, some hurt that happened in the immediate aftermath of the loss, it is worth naming eventually. Grief has a way of calcifying unaddressed resentment into something that lasts for years. You don't have to resolve everything. But naming it matters.

Give the benefit of the doubt, once. Just once. The sibling who didn't cry at the funeral is not heartless. The sibling who took three weeks to call you back is not indifferent. The sibling who already gave away the sweaters is not a monster. Grief makes people do strange things, behave in ways that look nothing like love but are coming entirely from love. Try, once, to read it that way.

And then, if needed, grieve separately. Not every grief journey has to be a group project. It is okay to find your own path through this, even if it means some distance from people you love, for a while.

You are not a bad sibling for grieving your way

Whatever you're feeling toward your family right now, the anger, the distance, the hurt, the exhaustion, the complicated relief, the guilt about the complicated relief, none of it means you loved the person who died any less.

Grief is not a competition. It is not a loyalty test. It is not a measure of who was the better child or who showed up more or who deserves to hurt the most.

You all lost someone. You are all doing the best you can with the very limited tools humans are given for this.

That's enough. You're enough.

Even when it doesn't feel like it at the kitchen table.

The Funny Things People Say When Someone Dies (And Why We Say Them)

I’ve covered this topic many times but I feel it deserves revisiting every now and again. 

"Everything happens for a reason."

"God needed another angel."

"At least they're not suffering anymore."

"They wouldn't want you to be sad."

Oh, sweet, well-meaning humans. We really do try.

If you've ever lost someone, you've collected a few of these gems. Maybe you smiled politely while internally screaming. Maybe you nodded so many times your neck hurt. Maybe you genuinely don't remember a single thing anyone said to you in those first days because grief does that, it swallows whole conversations whole, and all you're left with is the blur and the casseroles.

But the things people say when someone dies? They are a whole category of human experience worth talking about. Because they're awkward, and sometimes accidentally hilarious, and also, if you look at them sideways, kind of sweet.

The Greatest Hits

Let's just honor a few of the classics, shall we?

"Let me know if you need anything."

Said by approximately one thousand people. Followed up on by approximately none. This one comes from a good place, genuinely, but grief doesn't work like a customer service request. The grieving person is not going to email you a list of their needs. They don't know their needs. They're barely remembering to drink water.

"They lived a good long life."

This one is reserved for older losses, delivered as comfort, and received with a quiet internal "...and?" Because long life or short life, the person is still gone. The math of years doesn't make the missing easier. (seriously, I had a 102 year old tell me once “that went by so fast”)

"I know exactly how you feel."

Do you though? Do you really? (Morgan Freeman voiceover: they did not.)

"You need to stay strong for your kids / your family / your dog."

Ah yes. A gentle reminder to perform strength on behalf of others while your own grief quietly moves into the corner and starts building furniture.

"Time heals all wounds."

Said with such confidence. As if grief has a lease with an end date. As if you can just wait it out like a bad weather system.

Why Do We Say These Things?

Here's the part where I actually mean it: we say these things because we love people and we are terrified.

Death is the great disruptor and it makes everyone aware of their own mortality, their own helplessness, and the gaping inadequacy of language. And humans, beautiful chaotic humans that we are, respond to discomfort by filling the silence.  (Boy we really hate silence don’t we?) We reach for the nearest thing that sounds like comfort, even if it lands like a lead balloon.

Nobody hands you a script for standing next to a casket. Nobody teaches you what to say when your coworker's husband dies or your neighbor loses her baby or your best friend calls you from the hospital parking lot. So we pull from the cultural grab bag of grief phrases we've absorbed over a lifetime, most of which were written by people who were also, frankly, just winging it.

The intention is almost always love. The execution is sometimes…..a little rough.

The Things That Actually Help

For the record, the things grieving people consistently say helped them most are not particularly eloquent.

"I'm so sorry."  Now this is a classic go-to but I can tell you from experience you get really sick of hearing this one after awhile. So maybe….

"I love you."

"I'm here."

Showing up with food, or just showing up.  (ask first with food.  There is such thing as too many casseroles) Sitting in silence without trying to fix it. Saying the dead person's name out loud (please, please say their name, it means everything). Texting three weeks later when everyone else has gone back to normal and the grieving person is standing in the cereal aisle absolutely losing it because their person used to like that brand.

You don't need the right words. You need presence and a willingness to be a little uncomfortable. That's it. That's the whole thing.  Seriously.

A Permission Slip

If you've said any of the things on that list above: it's okay. Genuinely.  (Full admission, I have said at least 2 of these) The people who love you know you were trying. Grief makes the people around it reach desperately for something useful to say or do, and sometimes what comes out is "at least they're in a better place" when what you meant was "I love you and I would do anything to take this pain from you."

That translation? Most grieving people can feel it, even through the awkward phrasing.

And if you're the one who's grieving and you've been on the receiving end of some truly spectacular word choices: I see you. I hope you've had at least one moment of dark, private laughter about it. Because sometimes that's the most human response of all.

Grief and humor are not opposites. They've been sharing a couch for a very long time.

Grief in the Workplace: How to Function When You're Falling Apart Between Meetings

Nobody puts "currently grieving" in their email signature.  (Although maybe we should!)

You just show up. You open your laptop, join the Zoom call, answer the Slack messages, and try really hard not to cry in the bathroom between your 10am and your 11am. You smile at the right moments. You say "I'm fine" so many times it starts to sound like a foreign language you're not fluent in.

And somehow, inexplicably, the rest of the world keeps going. Your inbox doesn't care that your person died, nor do those pesky deadlines, and the quarterly review doesn't know your heart is in seventeen pieces.

Grief in the workplace is one of the most under-talked-about experiences there is, and honestly? That needs to change.

Your brain on grief is not your normal brain

You may already know this but grief does genuinely wild things to your brain. Memory fog, trouble concentrating, emotional responses that show up at the most inconvenient times (hi, crying at a spreadsheet, we've all been there). It’s science.  You’re not broken.

When we're grieving, our nervous system is under enormous stress. The prefrontal cortex, the part responsible for focus, decision-making, and keeping your composure on a conference call, is basically running on fumes. So if you're reading an email three times and still not absorbing it, or you blanked on something you absolutely knew yesterday, please hear this: you are not broken. You are grieving.

Survival strategies that don't require oversharing

You don't owe anyone a detailed explanation of your grief at work. You also don't have to perform being okay when you're not. Here's a middle path that actually works:

Give yourself permission to do less, temporarily. Grief is exhausting in a way that sleep cannot fix. If you can scale back non-essential tasks during the early waves, do it. Even one less thing on the list can make a big impact.

Create micro-moments of transition. Before you get on a call, take sixty seconds. Breathe. Put a hand on your chest. Let yourself arrive. Grief has a way of pulling you into the past; these tiny pauses can help you come back to the present, at least for the next hour.

Have a phrase ready. When someone asks how you're doing and you're not ready to get into it, it's okay to have something prepared. "I'm taking it one day at a time" is honest and complete. You said the true thing. You don't have to say all of it.  (I tend to say things like “Doing the best I can today, thank you”)

Cry in the car. Seriously. The car is a sacred grief space. No judgment, great acoustics, windows that fog up for privacy. Use it.  If you don’t have a car see if there is a private room somewhere.

What to do with the waves

Grief doesn't arrive on a schedule (jerk), and it definitely doesn't read your calendar. A song comes on during your commute and suddenly you're wrecked before you've even logged in. (I write this because it literally just happened to me yesterday on the way to a client) Someone asks if you want to order lunch together and you remember that your person used to do that with you, and now the break room feels impossible.

The waves will come. The goal is not to stop them. The goal is to get a little better at surfing them.

When one hits at work: excuse yourself if you can, name what's happening internally even if you can't say it out loud ("I'm having a grief wave, this is okay, it will pass"), and give yourself grace. You are doing something incredibly hard. Getting through a Tuesday while grieving is genuinely a triumph. Let it be one.

A note on asking for support

If you have a manager or coworker you trust, consider telling them, even just a little. You don't have to map out your entire grief landscape. A simple "I'm going through a loss and some days are harder than others" can open the door for a little more grace to come your way. Most people want to help. They just don't know what to say, and they're waiting for a cue.

And if you're the coworker or manager reading this: check in. Not once. Keep checking in, weeks and months later, when everyone else has moved on and the grieving person is still quietly carrying it. That follow-up matters more than you know.  Trust me.

You don't have to do this alone

The loneliest part of grief at work is the performance of normalcy. Pretending to be fine when you're not. Eating lunch alone because you can't explain why today is hard. Closing your office door and hoping nobody notices your eyes are red.

You deserve a space where you don't have to pretend. Where showing up as you actually are, grieving and real and still figuring it out, is not only acceptable but welcome.

That's exactly what The Good Grief Society is. A virtual peer support community built for people who are in the thick of it and need somewhere to land that feels human. There's 24/7 access and twice-monthly live Zoom groups where you can talk, listen, or just exist alongside others who get it.

Because sometimes the most healing thing isn't having the right words. Sometimes it's just knowing you're not the only one crying in a bathroom between meetings.

Join The Good Grief Society here.

What No One Tells You About Caring for Someone With Dementia vs. Terminal Illness

Caregiving is caregiving, right? You love someone, they need help, you show up. Simple.  LOLZ.

If you've ever cared for someone with dementia and someone with a terminal illness, you already know these two experiences can feel like completely different planets. And if you're currently in one of them, you might be wondering why no one warned you about the specific flavor of hot garbage you're living through.

So let's talk about it.

The grief timeline is completely different

With a terminal illness, there's usually a diagnosis. Many conversations. And a moment where the road ahead, however devastating, starts to come into focus. You grieve, you plan, you brace yourself. It sucks, but there's a certain terrible clarity to it.

Dementia doesn't work that way.

With dementia, the loss is slow and non-linear. There's no single moment of "this is it." Instead, you lose them in pieces. Their laugh stays but their memories go. They know your face but not your name. Then one day, they don't know your face either. Each small disappearance is its own grief, and you're expected to keep showing up and loving whoever is there that day.  (Death by a thousand cuts)

It's called anticipatory grief in both situations, but with dementia, you can anticipate for years. Sometimes a decade. That's a long time to hold your breath.

One asks you to let go. The other asks you to keep finding them.

Here's something caregivers don't typically say out loud: with a terminal illness, part of the emotional work is slowly releasing the person you love. You're preparing. You're making peace. You're saying the things that need to be said while there's still time to say them.

With dementia, you never quite get to do that.

You're not releasing them. You're chasing them. Trying to connect with whoever showed up today. Celebrating tiny moments of recognition as if they're sacred (because they are). Grieving the version of them from last month, while still fully present with who they are right now.

Neither is easier. They're just different kinds of suck.

The caregiver guilt hits differently

Caregiver guilt is universal, I see it in EVERY caregiver I interact with. But how it shows up changes depending on what you're dealing with.

With a terminal illness, guilt often sounds like: Did I do enough? Did I push hard enough for better care? Should I have noticed sooner?

With dementia, guilt sounds more like: I got frustrated when they asked me the same question for the fifteenth time. I dreaded going over there today. I felt relieved when I finally left. Sometimes it sounds like: I don't recognize this person anymore and I don't always know how to love who they've become.

That last one is one of the most painful things a caregiver can feel, and one of the least talked about. Loving someone through dementia sometimes means loving a stranger who wears your person's face. That is genuinely hard, and it does not make you a bad caregiver.

Practical planning looks completely different too

With a terminal illness, there are conversations to be had. Advance directives, hospice decisions, legacy projects, final wishes. Difficult as they are, these conversations are possible. The person you're caring for can often still participate in their own end-of-life planning.

With dementia, those conversations often happen too late or not at all. Many families find themselves making enormous decisions for someone who can no longer tell them what they want. That weight is significant. It's one of the biggest reasons I encourage people (all people, while they're healthy) to get their wishes documented long before they need to be.

No guilt or shade to anyone but this is why I cannot express enough how important it is to have these conversations with your loved ones NOW.  Whether you’re 30 or 70, START TALKING ABOUT IT NOW.  (I have a death planning workshop coming up later this month where we can get the ball rolling on this!)

What stays the same

Here's the thing neither experience will let you forget: presence matters. Enormously.

Whether your person knows you're there or not. Whether they can say thank you or not. Whether the day feels meaningful or just exhausting and repetitive. You showing up is not nothing. It is, in fact, everything.

Both kinds of caregiving will change you. Both will test you in ways you didn't expect. Both deserve to be talked about honestly, without the pressure to make it look more manageable than it is.

If you're in either of these seasons right now, I see you. And if no one has said it lately: you're doing something really hard, and you're doing it with love.

That counts. Even on the days it doesn't feel like enough.

I host a peer support group for caregivers on the first and third Thursdays of each month at 7PM EST over zoom.  Pajamas and ugly crying are welcome!  Please reach out if you want to be added to the invite list.  

End-of-Life Care for the LGBTQ+ Community

End-of-life care is deeply personal for anyone. It asks big questions about identity, dignity, relationships, and what it means to feel safe in your own body and your own story.  And for members of the LGBTQ+ community, those questions often come with an added layer.

Because for many people, safety has not always been a given.

There are individuals who have spent years, sometimes decades, navigating systems that did not fully see them, respect them, or protect them. Medical spaces, in particular, can carry complicated histories. Being misgendered, having relationships dismissed, or feeling the need to explain and defend your identity in vulnerable moments is uncomfortable and deeply exhausting.

So when we talk about end-of-life care in the LGBTQ+ community, we are talking about more than comfort measures and symptom management. We are talking about trust.  We are talking about creating spaces where people can show up fully as themselves without bracing for impact.

One of the most important pieces of this is recognition. Chosen family, partners, and support systems must be acknowledged and respected. For many LGBTQ+ individuals, the people who stand closest to them are not always legal relatives. They are friends, partners, and community members who have become family through love and shared experience.

When these relationships are overlooked or dismissed in medical settings, it can create real harm. Important voices are left out of decision-making. The person who knows the patient best may be sidelined. In moments where clarity and connection matter most, that absence can feel sharp.

This is where planning ahead becomes especially powerful.  Advance directives, healthcare proxies, and clear documentation of wishes can help ensure that the right people are included and respected. It creates a layer of protection in a system that does not always default to inclusion.

It is also about identity being honored all the way through.  Names. Pronouns. Gender expression. These are not small details. They are central to a person’s sense of self. At the end of life, when so much can feel out of control, being addressed correctly and seen clearly can offer a sense of grounding that is hard to put into words.  There is a quiet kind of dignity in being known.

Care providers, whether in hospice, palliative care, or private support roles, have an opportunity here. Listening closely. Asking instead of assuming. Creating an environment where a person does not have to decide whether it feels safe to share who they are.

Sometimes this means simple, direct questions:

“What name would you like us to use?”
“Who are the important people in your life?”
“Are there any traditions or parts of your identity that feel important to honor right now?”

These questions open doors.  They signal that this is a space where the whole person is welcome.

There are also generational differences worth acknowledging. Older LGBTQ+ adults may carry memories of times when being open about their identity came with serious risk. Some may choose not to disclose, even at the end of life. Others may want to share more openly than they ever have before.  Both responses deserve respect.

End-of-life care is not about pushing someone to be more open than they feel safe being. It is about meeting them exactly where they are.

Support can also extend beyond the individual to the people who love them. Grief in the LGBTQ+ community can sometimes be complicated by lack of recognition. A partner may not be acknowledged as such. A chosen family member may feel invisible in spaces where their connection is not understood.

Creating inclusive environments means recognizing grief in all its forms and making space for those relationships to be seen and supported.

There is also room here for advocacy. Death doulas, caregivers, and loved ones can gently speak up when something feels off. Correct a name. Reinforce a relationship. Ask for adjustments when care does not align with the person’s identity.

These moments matter.  They help shape an experience that feels more aligned, more respectful, more human.  At its core, end-of-life care for the LGBTQ+ community is about the same thing it is for everyone.

Being seen.
Being heard.
Being treated with dignity.

And also, for many, it is about finally being able to exhale in spaces that feel safe enough to hold the fullness of who they are.

If you are supporting someone in this community, your presence matters more than having all the right answers. Your willingness to listen, to learn, and to honor what is shared with you can create a sense of safety that stays long after words fade.

And if this is personal for you, if you are navigating your own care or supporting someone you love, know this:

You deserve care that reflects your life.
Your relationships.
Your identity.

Not as an afterthought.

As a given.

Medical Aid in Dying: The Facts, the Myths, and Why It's So Complicated

Yesterday, Ohio lawmakers introduced the Ohio Medical Aid in Dying Act.

As a death doula, I've been waiting for this moment for a long time. And I have feelings about it. A lot of them. So let's talk.

First, what is Medical Aid in Dying?

Medical Aid in Dying (MAID) is not euthanasia. It is not a doctor administering a lethal injection. It is not someone making the decision for a patient.  This is the myth that has stopped this for far too long. 

MAID is the option for a terminally ill adult to request a prescription for medication they can choose to self-administer, on their own terms, at a time of their choosing. The key word there is choose. The patient decides. The patient acts. Nobody does it for them.

The Ohio bill would require two physicians to confirm a terminal diagnosis and that the patient has six months or less to live. Two doctors would have to approve both oral and written requests before a prescription could be filled. There are also built-in criminal penalties for fraud or coercion. This is not a casual process. The safeguards are real and deliberate.

What states already have this?

Washington D.C. and 13 states have already legalized medically assisted dying, and six in ten Americans say they don't morally object to it, according to a 2026 Pew Research analysis. Oregon has had it since 1997. The sky has not fallen. The data from those states consistently shows that the people who use MAID are not the vulnerable or the coerced. They are people who are already dying, who want some measure of control over how.

The myths worth addressing

"This is a slippery slope to euthanasia." The Ohio bill explicitly prohibits euthanasia, mercy killing, and lethal injection. Only terminally ill adults qualify. Disabilities, mental illness, dementia, and serious or chronic conditions would not qualify. The scope is narrow on purpose.

"Doctors will pressure vulnerable people." The opposite tends to be true. Most physicians who support MAID describe it as an extension of patient-centered care. The bill includes criminal penalties specifically for coercion.

"People will choose this instead of treatment." Research from states where MAID is legal shows that the vast majority of people who obtain the prescription never use it. The comfort of having the option is often enough.

Why it's still complicated

Here's where I want to be honest with you, because this topic deserves honesty more than it deserves a tidy conclusion.

MAID brings up enormous questions about suffering, about the role of medicine, about faith, about what a "good death" even means. People I deeply respect land on different sides of this. The opposition is not all bad faith. Some of it comes from a genuine, deeply held belief that life is sacred and that every moment of it matters, even the hard ones. You can disagree with that conclusion and still understand where it comes from.

Ohio's GOP-majority legislature is unlikely to bring the bill to a vote, so this conversation may be more symbolic than immediate. But symbolic conversations matter. They move the needle. They make space for people to think about what they actually believe before they're the one in the hospital bed.

Why I'm talking about this today

Because this is exactly the kind of conversation most people avoid until they can't anymore. Because I've sat with people who were terrified of how they would die, not of dying itself, but of the loss of control, the suffering, the indignity. Because I've also talked to people of deep faith who found meaning in every remaining moment, even the painful ones, and wouldn't have chosen differently.

Both of those are true. Both of those are human.

I had the privilege of talking with Lisa Vigil Schattinger, Executive Director of Ohio End of Life Options, on the podcast a while back. (If you haven't listened, here it is) She has dedicated her life to this issue and she is one of the clearest, most compassionate voices in the room.

This conversation is happening in Ohio now. I think we should be part of it.

The Healing Power of Storytelling at the End of Life

Something shifts when a person knows their time may be limited.  The small talk feels less important. The surface-level conversations lose their appeal. And what often rises in its place is something deeper, more honest, sometimes surprisingly tender.

Stories.

I don’t mean polished, highlight-reel versions or book-worthy epics. The real ones. The ones with texture. The ones that hold joy and regret in the same breath. The ones that start with “I’ve never told anyone this before…”

At the end of life, storytelling becomes less about entertainment and more about meaning. It is a way of gathering the scattered pieces of a life and holding them up to the light. Not to judge them, but to witness them.  And there is something deeply healing about being witnessed.

For the person who is dying, telling their story can feel like putting things back into order. Memories that once felt random begin to connect. Moments that seemed small take on new significance. Even painful experiences can soften a little when spoken out loud, when someone is there to listen without rushing, without fixing, without turning away.

There is often a rather important question underneath it all:
Did my life matter?

Storytelling becomes one way of answering that question.  It says, “This happened. I was here. This is what I loved. This is what I carried. This is who I was.”  And that matters more than most people realize.

For families and loved ones, these stories become something to hold onto long after the person is gone. Not just facts or timelines, but essence. The way they laughed when they told a certain story. The way their eyes softened when they talked about someone they loved. The pauses, the emotions, the little details that never made it into photo albums or social media posts.

These are the things people return to in grief.

Sometimes storytelling at the end of life looks intentional. A recorded conversation. A collection of letters. A guided life review where someone is gently invited to reflect on different seasons of their life.  Sometimes it is far less structured.

It happens in the quiet hours, sitting at the bedside. In the middle of the night when sleep will not come. In between medication schedules and visits from nurses. A memory surfaces, and someone follows it. Another memory follows that one. Before you know it, hours have passed and something meaningful has unfolded without anyone planning it.

Storytelling is not just about the past. It is also about connection in the present. It creates moments where the person who is dying is not defined by their illness. They are a whole human being, full of experiences, relationships, and memories that deserve space.

It can also open doors that have been closed for a long time.

A story can lead to an apology that never found its words.  It can lead to forgiveness, or at least a softening.  It can lead to laughter in a room that has felt heavy for days.  And sometimes, it simply leads to peace.

The kind of peace that says, “This is my life, as it was. And I can sit with that.”

For caregivers and loved ones, there can be a quiet pressure to say the right thing, to ask the right questions, to somehow make this time meaningful.  And you do not have to be a perfect interviewer!!  Start simple.

“Tell me about when you were younger.”
“What was your favorite place?”
“Who changed your life?”
“What are you most proud of?”

And then….here’s the fun part….. just listen.

No need to steer the conversation. No need to turn it into something profound. The meaning has a way of finding its way out.

The stories may be messy or incomplete. Memories can blur, and details can get mixed up. That’s okay!  It is about giving someone the space to say, “This is what it felt like to be me.”

If you are walking alongside someone at the end of life, consider this an invitation.  Don’t force storytelling, but to make room for it.  Put down the mental checklist for a moment. Sit a little longer. Ask a question you have never asked before. Let silence do some of the work.  You might be surprised by what emerges!

And if you are the one nearing the end of your life, or even just reflecting on it from where you are now, your stories are worth telling. And don’t wait for them to be perfectly organized.  (They never will be!)

In the end, stories are one of the ways we remain, long after the room is quiet.  Long after the moment has passed.  They carry pieces of us forward, held in the hearts of the people who listened.

How Death Doulas Differ from Hospice and Palliative Care

I get this question a lot so I figured I’d expand on it a bit.

When someone receives a serious or life-limiting diagnosis, a whole new language tends to enter the room. Words like “palliative care,” and “hospice,” start floating around, often used interchangeably. It can feel confusing, especially when you are already overwhelmed and trying to make thoughtful decisions for yourself or someone you love.

These services can overlap in beautiful ways, but they are not the same. Understanding the differences can help you build the kind of support system that actually meets your needs, not just medically, but emotionally and practically too.

Let’s start with palliative care.

Palliative care focuses on improving quality of life at any stage of a serious illness. It can begin at diagnosis and exist alongside curative treatment. A palliative care team usually includes doctors, nurses, and specialists who work together to manage symptoms like pain, nausea, fatigue, and anxiety. They are there to help you feel as comfortable and supported as possible while you continue treatment.

Hospice care enters the picture later, typically when curative treatment is no longer being pursued and the focus shifts fully to comfort. Hospice teams provide medical care, pain management, and emotional support, often in the home. They also support family members, offering guidance and resources during an incredibly tender time. Hospice is structured, regulated, and usually covered by insurance when eligibility criteria are met.

Now, where do death doulas fit into all of this?

A death doula is a non-medical support person who walks alongside individuals and families through the entire process. Think of it as a deeply human layer of care that complements what hospice and palliative teams provide.

Death doulas are not there to replace medical professionals. They do not administer medication or make clinical decisions. Instead, they focus on presence, planning, education, and emotional support in ways that are often more flexible and personalized.

This can look like helping someone create a legacy project, writing letters, recording stories, or planning meaningful rituals. It can look like guiding a family through conversations they have been avoiding because they do not know how to start. And also sitting at the bedside and holding space during long, quiet hours.

Sometimes it is more practical. A death doula might help organize paperwork, talk through end-of-life wishes, or explain what the dying process can look like in a way that feels less clinical and more grounded. They can also support caregivers who are exhausted and unsure if they are doing things “right.”

One of the biggest differences is time and continuity. Hospice nurses and aides often have full caseloads and limited visit times. They provide essential care, but they cannot always stay for hours or be available on short notice for emotional support. A death doula can offer more consistent presence, whether that means longer visits, being on call, or simply being someone you can text when questions come up at 2 a.m.

There is also a difference in how support is shaped. Hospice and palliative care follow medical guidelines and organizational structures. Death doulas tend to work more fluidly, adapting to the unique values, beliefs, and rhythms of the person and family they are supporting. The care can be as spiritual, practical, quiet, or creative as the situation calls for.

Another important distinction is access. Hospice is typically covered by insurance, while death doulas are usually paid out of pocket. This can influence how and when people bring a doula into their care team. Some families choose to involve a doula early for planning and emotional support, while others reach out closer to the end when they realize they need more hands and heart in the room.

What matters most is that these roles are not in competition. In many cases, they work beautifully together.

A hospice nurse may manage pain and monitor physical changes. A death doula may sit with the family afterward, helping them process what they just witnessed. A palliative care team may adjust medications to ease symptoms. A death doula may help translate that experience into something the family can emotionally understand and integrate.

It becomes a kind of layered care, where each role supports a different part of the experience.

And at the center of it all is a person who is dying, along with the people who love them, trying to find steadiness in a time that rarely feels steady.

If you are navigating this space, you are allowed to ask questions. You are allowed to build a support system that feels right to you. Medical care matters deeply, and so does having someone who can sit with you in the quiet, the fear, the meaning-making, and the in-between moments that do not fit neatly into a chart.

There is no one right way to do this.

There is only the way that helps you feel a little more supported, a little more informed, and a little less alone as you walk through it.

Is This Grief or Am I Just Losing My Mind? (Spoiler: It’s Both)

I need to write this out because I am living this myself right the #%# now.

At some point in grief, almost everyone has the same unsettling thought:

Am I okay? Like… actually okay?

Because suddenly, you’re doing and thinking things that don’t feel like you. You walk into a room and forget why you’re there. You reread the same sentence five times and still have no idea what it says. You cry at a commercial about laundry detergent. Or worse, you don’t cry at all, and that somehow feels even more alarming.

You might even find yourself Googling symptoms at 2 a.m., half-convinced you’ve developed a neurological condition overnight.

Let me save you a little time (and a lot of late-night chat gpt conversations):  You’re not crazy.  And you’re not sick.  (Well I won’t confirm that one, I’m not a doctor)  But grief does make it feel like you are.

So….it’s both.

Grief isn’t just emotional. It’s neurological, physical, cognitive and spiritual.  Sometimes all at once. It’s like your entire internal operating system was removed, shaken up, and reinstalled without a user manual. Of course things feel glitchy.  (Sorry my IT background comes out now and then)

Your brain is literally trying to process a reality it doesn’t want to accept. The person you lost still exists in your memory, your habits, your muscle memory. You might still reach for your phone to text them. You might expect to hear their voice in the next room. And then….you remember.

Again.And again.And again.

That repeated remembering? It’s exhausting. It’s disorienting. It’s why you feel foggy, forgetful, and sometimes completely untethered from yourself.  (HI I’M  LITERALLY LIVING THIS RIGHT NOW AND IT SUCKS SO HARD)

And then there are the emotional whiplashes.  (Nikki.  Please make this stop)

One minute you’re fine, answering emails, making dinner, maybe even laughing at something dumb. The next minute, you’re hit with a wave so strong it feels like it came out of nowhere. Your chest tightens, your throat closes, and suddenly you’re crying in the car, gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.

It can make you question your stability.  Shouldn’t I be more consistent than this?  Nope!

Grief doesn’t do consistency. Grief does unpredictability. It shows up uninvited, ignores your schedule, and has absolutely no respect for your plans to “pull it together.”  (jerk)

And let’s talk about the intrusive thoughts for a second.  The “what ifs,” the “if onlys,” the mental replays of things you said or didn’t say. These loops can feel obsessive, like your brain is stuck on repeat and you can’t find the off switch.  That’s your mind trying (and failing) to make sense of something that doesn’t make sense.  Grief asks questions that don’t have answers. And your brain, being the overachiever that it is, keeps trying anyway.

Then there’s the identity piece. The subtle but profound feeling that you don’t quite recognize yourself anymore. The things that used to matter don’t hit the same. The version of you that existed before this loss feels… distant. Almost like someone you used to know.  And that can be one of the scariest parts.

Because it’s not just them that’s gone, it’s the version of you that existed with them.

So if you’re sitting there wondering whether you’re unraveling, here’s the honest answer:  You’re reconfiguring.  (Or defragging for my fellow IT nerds)  And yeah, it’s messy as hell.

Grief strips things down to the bones. It shakes loose your assumptions about life, about control, about what’s fair and what’s not. It forces you to carry something you never asked for, and it doesn’t give you a clear map for how to do it.

Of course you feel disoriented.Of course your thoughts feel scattered.Of course your emotions feel bigger, weirder, harder to contain.

That doesn’t mean you’re losing your mind, it means your mind is trying to hold something enormous.

Reality check: while grief can absolutely mimic anxiety, depression, and even symptoms that feel like you’re “going crazy,” there are times when extra support is needed. If your thoughts feel unsafe, if you’re completely unable to function, or if the fog never lifts even a little, please reach out. You don’t have to muscle through this alone.

For most of us, this strange, surreal, “what is happening to me” feeling is a very normal part of a very human response to loss.

So the next time your brain feels like scrambled eggs and your emotions are doing gymnastics, try this instead of panicking:

Pause.Breathe.This is grief.

Not a personal failure, not a sign you’re broken, not proof you’re losing it.  Just grief, doing what grief does best: Turning your world upside down… while quietly, slowly asking you to learn how to live in it again.

And hey, if you want to be in a group with others that get it, come join us over in the Good Grief Society!

Before the End: 7 Things I Wish Everyone Knew Before They Die

Working with people at the end of life gives you a strange kind of clarity.

When someone knows their time is limited, the noise of everyday life falls away. The things we obsess over; emails, messy kitchens, awkward conversations, whether we said the wrong thing at a meeting, suddenly feel… well….silly.

What rises to the surface instead are the things that were always important but easy to ignore when life felt endless.

As a death doula, I’ve had the privilege of sitting with people in those final chapters. I’ve listened to their reflections, their regrets, their gratitude, and the quiet wisdom that often arrives when the clock gets louder.

And over time, some patterns show up again and again.

Here are a few things I wish more people understood long before they reach the end of their lives.

1. You Don’t Have As Much Time As You Think

“It all goes so fast!”  It’s cliche’ but omg is it true.  I don’t mean this to scare you.  Just to really clarify my point.

Most of us move through life assuming we have decades to sort things out, repair relationships, take the trip, change careers, or finally start doing the thing we keep putting off.  But the truth is, time is unpredictable.  Ask my brother who died at 40.  Or mom who died literally writing her to-do list for that day.

When people reach the end of life, one of the most common realizations is how quickly it all moved.

The good news? You don’t need to panic about time.

You just need to stop assuming there’s always more of it.

2. The Little Moments Were Actually the Big Ones

People rarely talk about promotions or fancy purchases when they’re nearing the end.  They talk about ordinary moments that turned out to be extraordinary:

Saturday mornings making pancakes with their kids.
Laughing with friends until their stomach hurt.
Quiet evenings on the couch with someone they loved.

The things that seemed small at the time often become the memories people hold onto most tightly.

Life’s meaning tends to hide in very ordinary places.

3. Most of the Things You Worry About Don’t Matter

So many people spend years worrying about things that, in hindsight, barely register.

What other people thought of them.
Whether they looked successful enough.
Whether they were doing life “the right way.”

Near the end, those worries lose their grip.

People often realize they spent a lot of energy managing perceptions instead of simply living.

Turns out, the scoreboard we imagine everyone else is keeping… DOESN’T EXIST!.

4. Relationships Matter More Than Achievements

Careers, accomplishments, and goals absolutely matter. They give life purpose and structure.  But when people look back on their lives, what carries the most emotional weight are the relationships.

Who loved them.
Who they loved.
Who showed up when things got hard.

The end of life tends to highlight a simple truth: connection is the real currency of being human.  Oh, I like that.  Let me say it again, louder for the people in the back.  CONNECTION IS THE REAL CURRENCY OF BEING HUMAN.

Investing in relationships almost always pays off way bigger than a Roth IRA

5. It’s Never Too Late to Say the Important Things

One of the most powerful parts of being around the dying is witnessing the conversations that finally happen.

Apologies.
Forgiveness.
“I love you.”
“I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you for being in my life.”

Many of these words were sitting quietly in people’s hearts for years.

The beautiful thing is that even near the end, speaking them out loud can bring enormous peace, to both sides of the conversation.

But if we’re honest, most of these things don’t actually need to wait until the end.

6. Your Life Doesn’t Have to Be Perfect to Be Meaningful

A lot of people carry the belief that they were supposed to do life better somehow.

Be more successful.
Be a better parent.
Make fewer mistakes.

But when people start reflecting on their whole life story, something softer often emerges.

They begin to see the courage it took to keep going.  The ways they helped people without realizing it.  The love that existed even inside messy, imperfect moments.

Meaning is found in a life that was fully lived, fully felt, and deeply human.

7. Being Here Was the Gift All Along

One of the quiet themes that appears at the end of life is gratitude for the simple fact of having existed.

For sunsets, music, and the feeling of laughing so hard you can’t breathe. For falling in love, raising children and simply watching seasons change again and again.

Even people who lived very difficult lives often find moments of wonder when reflecting on the fact that they got to experience this strange, beautiful thing called being alive.  And that realization can bring a surprising sense of peace.

A Gentle Reminder for the Living

You don’t have to wait until the end of life to learn these things.

You can call the person you’ve been meaning to call.

You can forgive someone (including yourself).

You can notice the small moments that are happening today instead of rushing past them.

And you can stop waiting for some imaginary “someday” version of life to begin.

Because if the people I’ve sat beside at the end have taught me anything, it’s this:

Life isn’t something that starts later.

It’s already happening.

When Words Fail: 5 Powerful Ways to Be Present When You Don’t Know What to Say

There’s a moment that happens when someone you love is hurting.

You want to say something helpful. Something comforting. Something wise and beautiful that makes it all feel a little less awful.  And instead… your brain goes completely blank.

So you panic a little and say something like, “Let me know if you need anything,” or “Everything happens for a reason,” and immediately wish you could rewind time like it’s a bad voicemail recording.

Here’s the truth most people don’t realize:
When someone is grieving or struggling, the right words matter far less than your presence.

You don’t need a perfect speech. You don’t need to solve their pain. You just need to show up in a real, human way.

If you’ve ever thought, “I want to be there for them, but I don’t know what to say,” you’re already halfway there.

Here are five ways to be deeply present when words feel inadequate.

1. Say the Honest Thing

When we’re uncomfortable, we often reach for clichés because silence feels awkward. But honesty is far more comforting than a rehearsed line.

Simple phrases like:

• “I don’t know what to say, but I care about you.”

• “I’m really sorry you’re going through this.”

• “This just really sucks.” (My personal fave)

These words may feel small, but they carry something powerful: authenticity.

People in pain can sense when someone is trying to fix or tidy up their grief. Honest acknowledgment says, “I see that this is hard, and I’m not going to pretend it isn’t.”

And sometimes that’s the most comforting thing you can offer.

2. Let Silence Do Some of the Work

Silence gets a bad reputation.

We’ve been trained to think every pause needs to be filled, every emotion needs commentary, and every tear requires a speech.

But silence, when shared with someone who cares, can be incredibly supportive.

You can sit together.
Walk together.
Hold a hand.
Pass the tissues without saying a word.

Those quiet moments tell someone, “You don’t have to perform for me. You don’t have to rush through this. I’m staying right here.”

And that kind of presence is rare.

3. Listen Like You Mean It

Most of us listen with one ear while the other ear is busy preparing our next response.

But when someone is hurting, what they often need most is to be heard without interruption, correction, or advice.  (NO ONE LIKES ADVICE THEY DIDN’T ASK FOR!)

You can say things like:

• “Tell me more about that.”

• “What’s been the hardest part?”

• “I’m here. Keep going.”

You don’t have to analyze their feelings or steer the conversation somewhere more comfortable. Just let them talk.

Grief, fear, anger, confusion are big emotions that need space. And when someone offers that space, it’s incredibly healing.

Think of it less like fixing and more like holding the container for whatever shows up.

4. Do Something Small and Practical

When someone’s world has been turned upside down, everyday tasks can suddenly feel enormous.

This is where practical support becomes gold.

Instead of vague offers like “Let me know if you need anything,” try something concrete:

• Drop off a meal

• Walk the dog

• Run an errand

• Send a quick check-in text

• Sit with them during a hard appointment

These gestures say, “You don’t have to carry everything alone today.”

And the beautiful thing about practical support is that it removes pressure. The person receiving it doesn’t have to ask, organize, or explain.

You just quietly help carry a little of the weight.

5. Keep Showing Up (Even After the Crisis)

One of the hardest parts of grief or hardship is what happens after the initial wave of support fades.  People check in right after the loss. Meals arrive. Messages pour in.  Then life moves on.

But the grief? It sticks around.  One of the most meaningful things you can do is keep showing up long after everyone else has returned to normal life.

Send a message weeks later.  Remember important dates.  Ask how they’re doing months down the road.

Grief doesn’t follow a tidy timeline, and presence shouldn’t either.

Sometimes the greatest gift you can give someone is simply proving that their pain hasn’t been forgotten.

The Real Secret to Showing Up

If you take nothing else away from this, remember this one thing:

You don’t have to say the perfect thing to be the right person in the room.

You just have to be willing to stay.

Stay when it’s awkward.
Stay when emotions get messy.
Stay when there’s nothing wise or poetic to offer.

Because real, imperfect presence is far more powerful than perfectly chosen words.  And chances are, the person hurting won’t remember the exact sentence you said anyway.

They’ll remember that you showed up… and didn’t disappear when things got hard.

Caregiver Guilt Is Normal: Why Feeling Like You’re Doing It Wrong Might Mean You’re Doing It Right

If you’re caring for someone who is dying or seriously ill, there’s a good chance you’ve had this thought at least once a day:

I’m doing this wrong.

Maybe it shows up when you lose your patience.
Or when you Google symptoms at 2 a.m. and convince yourself you missed something important.
Or when someone asks, “How are things going?” and your brain immediately replies, Terribly. I have no idea what I’m doing.

Welcome to caregiving.

Here’s the truth no one says: most caregivers feel like they’re doing it wrong. And strangely enough, that feeling is often a sign you’re doing it exactly right.

Let me explain.

Caregiving Doesn’t Come With a Manual

Most caregivers are thrown into the role without training. One day you’re a daughter, partner, friend, or spouse… and suddenly you’re also a medication manager, appointment scheduler, emotional support human, medical translator, and part-time detective trying to interpret symptoms.

It’s a lot.

And because the stakes feel incredibly high (this is someone you love, after all) every decision can feel loaded with pressure.

Did I give the medication at the right time?
Should I have pushed harder at that doctor’s appointment?
Am I being patient enough?
Am I missing something?

Your brain is scanning for mistakes because you care deeply about the outcome.  Does that sound like failure?  I hope not!

Doubt Is Often a Sign of Deep Care

People who truly don’t care rarely question themselves.

The caregivers who lie awake worrying they’re doing it wrong are usually the ones who are showing up day after day despite exhaustion, uncertainty, and grief that started long before the death itself.

You’re learning as you go. You’re adapting to changes you didn’t ask for. You’re making decisions in situations where there are rarely clear “right” answers. Of course you feel unsure!

The Myth of the Perfect Caregiver

Somewhere along the way, many caregivers absorb this invisible expectation that they should be endlessly patient, emotionally steady, medically knowledgeable, and available 24/7.

Let’s be honest: that person does not exist.

Real caregivers:

• Get frustrated

• Forget things occasionally

• Need breaks

• Feel resentful sometimes

• Cry in the car

• Laugh at inappropriate moments

• And occasionally hide in the pantry just to breathe for five minutes

None of that means you’re failing. It means you’re human.

The goal was never perfection. 

What Your Loved One Actually Needs

When people imagine “doing caregiving right,” they often picture flawless care. Perfect timing, perfect words, perfect emotional responses.

But most people who are seriously ill aren’t looking for perfection.

They’re looking for:

• Someone who shows up

• Someone who tries

• Someone who stays

They need someone willing to sit in uncertainty with them.

And that’s exactly what caregivers do every day.

You might feel clumsy in the role. You might second-guess yourself constantly. But if you keep showing up with care and compassion, you’re already giving something incredibly meaningful.

The Quiet Reality of Caregiving

Caregiving is a strange mix of love, logistics, grief, and improvisation.

Some days you feel strong.
Some days you feel like a walking to-do list with a pulse.
Some days you feel like you’re barely holding things together with duct tape and caffeine.

That’s normal.

No one but you will care whether you handled every moment perfectly. You’re there, navigating something incredibly hard alongside someone you love.

If You’re Worried You’re Doing It Wrong…

Let me offer you this gentle reframe:

If you’re questioning yourself, it probably means you care deeply about getting it right.

And caring that much? That’s the heart of caregiving.

So if today you feel unsure… overwhelmed… or like you’re fumbling through the role…

Take a breath.

You’re showing up.
You’re trying.
You’re loving someone through one of the hardest chapters of life.

That counts more than you realize.

And odds are, you’re doing a whole lot more right than you think.

The In-Between Season of Grief

March has a strange personality.

One day the sun feels warm on your face and you think, maybe we’re turning a corner. The next day you’re scraping ice off your windshield again, wondering who you trusted enough to put the snow boots away.  It’s not winter anymore. But it’s not spring either.

Grief has a season like that too.

In the beginning, everything is very…..loud. The shock. The phone calls. The casseroles. The way time feels warped and unreal. There is structure in those early days. There are rituals to follow. There is permission to fall apart in public.  People expect you to be a mess. And you are.

But then the calendar keeps moving.

The meals stop arriving. The sympathy cards taper off. The world gently, then not so gently, returns to normal. You go back to work. You answer emails. You attend appointments. You figure out how to function.  And somewhere in that process, you enter the in-between season of grief.

You’re no longer in the acute stage. You are not in crisis every minute. You might even laugh again. You can carry on a conversation without your voice cracking. You can get through a whole afternoon without crying.  But you are not fine.

The pain has changed shape. It is less sharp, but more woven into your everyday life. It shows up in ordinary moments. In the grocery store when you reach for their favorite brand. In the quiet at night when there is no one to debrief your day with. In the sudden realization that you are becoming someone new, and you did not ask for this transformation.

This middle space can be deeply confusing.  You may look “better” from the outside. You are functioning. You are productive. You are handling things. People tell you how strong you are.

What they do not see is the low, steady ache beneath the surface. The background hum of missing. The mental math of firsts and anniversaries quietly approaching. The effort it takes to move through a world that feels both the same and completely altered.

This in-between season is often lonelier than the beginning.

In the early days, support surrounds you. Later, the assumption creeps in that you have processed it. That you are on the other side. That grief is something you move through quickly and neatly.  But grief does not follow a tidy timeline. It does not respond to pressure. It does not pack up because other people are uncomfortable.  This middle phase is where the deeper integration begins.

It is where you start asking harder questions. Who am I now? What does my life look like without them physically here? How do I carry this love forward?  It is also where guilt can sneak in. Guilt for laughing. Guilt for having a good day. Guilt for feeling relief if the caregiving was long and exhausting. Guilt for still hurting months or years later.

Let me say this clearly: THIS IS NORMAL AND YOU ARE OK.

You are not grieving too long. You are not weak for still having waves of sadness. You are not dramatic because a change in seasons hits you harder than you expected.  You are adjusting to a reality that altered you, and that takes time.

The in-between season of grief is not about “getting over” the loss. It is about learning how to live alongside it. It is about discovering that you can hold sorrow in one hand and a decent Tuesday in the other. That you can feel gratitude and longing in the same breath.  This is not betrayal. It is not forgetting.  It is growth that does not erase love.

March eventually gives way to spring, not because we forced it, but because seasons move at their own pace. The ground softens slowly. The light stretches a little further each evening. You do not notice the shift all at once. You notice it in inches.

Grief moves like that too.

If you find yourself in this middle ground, be gentle with yourself. Lower expectations where you can. Tell the truth about how you are actually doing, at least to one safe person. Let yourself be both functioning and fragile.  You do not have to rush this season and you do not have to navigate it alone.

This is exactly why I created the Good Grief Society. It is a space for people who are past the casseroles but still very much in it. A place where you do not have to explain why it still hurts. A place where the messy middle is understood, not fixed.  If you are in the in-between, you are welcome there.

You are not behind.

You are in a season.

And seasons change, even when they take their sweet time.

Top 5 Ways Grief Changes You and Why That’s Not a Failure

Grief has a way of rearranging the furniture of your life without asking permission. One day you recognize yourself. The next day you’ve tripped over the coffee table for the 3rd time wondering when this all got so damn HEAVY.

People often tell me that they just want to “get back to who I was before.” I understand that longing. But grief is not a detour you circle around and exit unchanged. It marks you. And being marked by love and loss is not a personal shortcoming. It is evidence that something mattered.

Here are five ways grief changes you, and why those changes are not signs you are doing it wrong.

1. Your energy shifts

You may feel bone-deep exhaustion, even months later. Tasks that once took an hour now take an afternoon. Decisions feel harder. Socializing can feel like hiking in flip-flops.  (Dude seriously, I’ve seen people do this.  Please no)

This does not mean you have become lazy or unmotivated. Grief consumes energy because your nervous system is working overtime underneath it all. You are adjusting to a world that no longer includes someone you love. Your body and brain are recalibrating. That takes fuel.

When your capacity changes, it is not a character flaw. It is your system asking for care. Think of it as healing work happening beneath the surface. You cannot see it, but it is real.

2. Your priorities rearrange themselves

After a significant loss, what once felt urgent may lose its shine. Career goals, social obligations, even long-held plans can feel less compelling. At the same time, smaller moments may suddenly feel sacred. A quiet morning. A real conversation. Time with the people who remain.

This shift can be disorienting. You may question your ambition or wonder why you no longer care about things that used to drive you. Grief often clarifies what truly matters. When death enters the room, illusions tend to leave.

Letting your priorities evolve is not drifting. It is growth under pressure. You are living with a deeper awareness of time and fragility. That perspective can reshape everything.

3. Your relationships change

Some people show up in ways that surprise you. Others disappear. Conversations can feel strained. You might find yourself less tolerant of surface-level interactions and more drawn to honesty.

This can be painful. It can also be clarifying. Loss tends to reveal who can sit in discomfort and who needs to rush you toward “better.” As your inner world changes, your relational world may shift too.

Outgrowing certain dynamics does not make you ungrateful. Wanting deeper connection does not make you demanding. Grief often teaches you to value authenticity. That lesson can refine your circle.

4. Your emotional landscape becomes more intense

You may cry at commercials. Or feel sudden waves of anger. Or experience joy that is sharper and more bittersweet than before. Grief can heighten everything. It cracks you open.

Some people worry that they are too emotional now. That they have become fragile. In truth, you are more aware. When you have loved deeply and lost deeply, your emotional range expands.

There is courage in staying open. It would be easier to numb out. Remaining connected to your feelings, even the messy ones, is a sign of resilience. Your heart has stretched. Stretched hearts feel more.

5. Your identity evolves

Perhaps you now carry a new title. Widow. Bereaved parent. Adult child without parents. Or maybe the change is quieter. You feel older somehow. More reflective. Less certain about simple answers.

You might not fully recognize the person you are becoming. That can be unsettling. We like continuity. We like the illusion that we stay the same.

Grief disrupts that illusion. It asks you to integrate love, loss, memory, and meaning into your sense of self. Over time, you may notice new strengths. Greater empathy. A deeper ability to sit with others in pain. A clearer understanding of what you stand for.

Becoming someone new in the aftermath of loss is not betrayal of who you were. It is an adaptation to reality. You are still you. Just with more layers.

If you are in the thick of grief, you might worry that you are handling it poorly because you feel different. Because your capacity has shifted. Because your worldview has changed.

Change is the natural companion of loss. You cannot lose something that mattered and remain untouched. The goal is not to preserve your old self in a glass case. The goal is to learn how to carry your love forward in a changed body, a changed mind, a changed life.

Grief will alter you. It may soften you in some places and strengthen you in others. It may slow you down. It may sharpen your clarity. None of that is failure.

It is the human response to loving deeply in a world where goodbye is part of the deal.

And if you are changing, it means you cared. That is something to honor, not hide.

If you need a soft place to land and be supported in your grief, come join us at the Good Grief Society!

Things Grief Took From Me and What It Gave Me Instead

Things Grief Took From Me and What It Gave Me Instead

Grief is a thief.  (I love a good rhyme)
It does not ask permission to come in.  It shows up, rearranges your life, and leaves you standing there holding pieces you do not recognize.

People talk a lot about what grief teaches us, how it makes us stronger or wiser. That might be true eventually. But first, grief takes. Quietly, aggressively, and without apology.

Here are some of the things grief took from me. And, over time, what it gave me instead.

It took my sense of safety

Before grief, I believed in a certain order to life. If you did the right things, loved the right way, planned carefully enough, you would be mostly protected.

Grief shattered that illusion. It taught me that life can change in a single phone call.  (A phone call forever etched in my brain) That control is mostly a story we tell ourselves to sleep at night.

What grief gave me instead was presence. I stopped postponing joy and connection. I learned to say the thing, take the trip, hold the hand longer. When you stop assuming tomorrow is guaranteed, today gets louder and more precious.

It took my old identity

Grief does not just take people. It takes versions of you.

I was no longer who I was before the loss. I could not go back, no matter how badly I wanted to. The world kept asking me to be my old self, while grief quietly erased that blueprint.

What it gave me instead was permission to become someone new. Someone softer in some places and sharper in others. Someone who no longer apologizes for being changed by loss. Reinvention was not a choice. It was survival.

It took my tolerance for nonsense

Small talk became unbearable. Performative busyness lost its appeal. I no longer had the patience for things that drained me just to keep the peace.

Grief stripped away the illusion that everything deserves my energy.

What it gave me instead was clarity. I learned where my yes truly lives and how sacred my no can be. I stopped explaining myself so much. Life is too short to spend it pretending.

It took my relationship with time

Grief warped time in strange ways. Days dragged. Months disappeared. Anniversaries felt both far away and impossibly close.

I stopped trusting the calendar to tell the truth about how I was doing.

What grief gave me instead was rhythm instead of deadlines. I learned that healing is not linear and cannot be scheduled. Some days are heavy for no obvious reason. Others are light and surprising. Both are allowed.

It took my illusions about strength

I thought strength meant holding it together. Being composed. Not falling apart.

Grief laughed at that idea.

It dropped me to my knees. It made me sob in grocery stores and forget words mid sentence. It humbled me in ways I never anticipated.

What it gave me instead was a deeper, quieter strength. The kind that lets you ask for help. The kind that sits with pain without rushing to fix it. The kind that survives.

It took some relationships

Not everyone stayed. Some people disappeared when grief got uncomfortable. Others expected me to grieve on a timeline that felt polite and tidy.

That loss hurt almost as much as the original one.

What grief gave me instead was discernment. I learned who could hold my truth and who could not. I found deeper connections with people who understood that grief is not something you get over, but something you learn to carry.

It took my innocence about pain

I will never again be naive about how deeply loss can cut.

That part of me is gone.

But what grief gave me instead was compassion. Real compassion. Not the kind that rushes in with platitudes, but the kind that sits quietly beside suffering. The kind that does not flinch when things get messy.

Grief took a lot from me. I will never pretend otherwise.

But it also gave me depth, honesty, and a fierce tenderness for what matters. It changed the way I love, the way I listen, and the way I show up in the world.

I would never choose grief.
But I honor who I became because of it.

What to Expect During the Dying Process: What Families Wish They’d Known

We plan funerals. We argue about paperwork. We Google symptoms at 2 a.m. But the day to day reality of the dying process often arrives with zero warning and a whole lot of what the hell is happening.

No one really talks about what dying actually looks like until you are already in it.

After walking alongside many families at the end of life, I’ve seen many different dying experiences but almost all of them end with someone saying, “I did not expect….”  Because it’s not like the movies.  And since we never talk about death and dying, we don’t often share our experiences with anyone else so we don’t know what to expect!

So let’s just get it out there, shall we?  Here are some of the things I’ve heard people tell me they wish they’d known.

1. Dying is usually slower than you expect

Movies make it look dramatic and sudden. Real life tends to be quieter and much longer.

People are often shocked by how much waiting there is. Days blur together. There are long stretches where nothing seems to change, followed by moments where everything shifts at once. That slowness can feel excruciating when you are emotionally exhausted and desperate for clarity.

Knowing this ahead of time does not make it easy, but it can keep you from constantly thinking you are missing something or doing something wrong.

2. Appetite changes are normal and not a personal rejection

One of the most painful moments for caregivers is when food stops being welcomed.

The dying body gradually needs less fuel. Hunger fades. Swallowing becomes difficult. Favorite foods suddenly taste wrong or are refused altogether. Families often panic or feel hurt, especially if feeding has always been a way of showing love.

This is not your loved one giving up or pushing you away. It is the body doing exactly what it is designed to do at the end of life. Offering food gently and without pressure is usually far more loving than insisting they eat.

(Check out this widely known book on the matter)

3. Sleep increases and it can feel like you are losing them early

People nearing the end of life often sleep more. Sometimes much more.

They may drift in and out of consciousness. Conversations become shorter. Eye contact fades. Families often worry that their loved one is withdrawing or that they have already missed their chance to connect.

Even when someone appears asleep, hearing is often one of the last senses to go. Talking, reading, holding a hand, or simply being present still matters. Love does not require a response to be real.

4. The body does strange things that are normal and unsettling

There are physical changes that no one prepares you for.

Breathing patterns change. Skin color shifts. Hands and feet cool. Sounds may come from the chest that are scary if you do not know what they are. None of this necessarily means pain.

Most of these changes are part of the natural shutting down process. Hospice and palliative teams see them every day. Asking questions is not bothersome. It is responsible caregiving.

5. Emotional and spiritual moments can be surprising

Some people talk to people who are not physically present. Some reach for something unseen. Some say things that feel symbolic or out of character.

This can be deeply comforting or deeply confusing, depending on your beliefs and expectations. Many families wish they had known that these moments are common and not signs of distress or confusion that need fixing.

Often, the best response is simply to listen and stay grounded.

6. You can do everything right and still feel like it is not enough

This is the one that hits hardest.

Caregivers often replay every decision after the death. Did I say the right thing? Did I stay too long or not long enough? Should I have pushed for something different?

There is no perfect script for dying. Being present, imperfect, tired, loving, and human is already enough. Guilt loves hindsight, but hindsight is not wisdom. It is just pain looking for meaning.

7. The end does not always look how you imagined

Some deaths are peaceful. Some are messy. Some are quiet. Some are loud with emotion.

Families often expect a final profound moment with clear closure. Sometimes that happens. Sometimes the end is subtle and anticlimactic. Both are normal. Neither means you did anything wrong or missed something sacred.

8. You are allowed to need support too

Many people believe caregiving means being strong at all costs.

In reality, the dying process can hollow you out. It is exhausting, heartbreaking, and disorienting. Wanting help does not mean you are failing. It means you are human.

Support groups, hospice teams, death doulas, and trusted friends exist because no one should do this alone.  (Psst, I host a completely free support group for caregivers twice a month on zoom!)

If there is one thing people consistently wish they had known, it is this:  You are not broken for feeling lost during death. Death is unfamiliar territory, and most of us are learning it in real time.

Gentleness goes a long way here. With them. With yourself.

As always, if you need help or just some calming presence while caregiving please do not hesitate to reach out.