Understanding the Impact of Sudden Death vs. Anticipated Death

No two losses are the same. We don't react to any loss the same as we did the last one.  The way grief lands with us often depends on how that death showed up. When someone dies suddenly, it’s a bit like a punch in the face. When death is anticipated, it’s more like a slow dimming of the light. Both leave us in the fumbling dark, just in different ways.

When Death Comes Suddenly

I once heard someone describe sudden death as “being shoved into a room you didn’t know existed, with no lights on and no way back out.” That’s pretty accurate honestly. Shocking and confusing.

If your loved one was here one moment and gone the next, your mind might keep circling the same questions: How can this be real? Did I miss something? Why didn’t I…? What if…? The unfinished conversations and abrupt ending can feel unbearable.  (Remember my post on closure?)

Some people feel anger. Anger at the circumstances, at the randomness of it all, sometimes even at the person who died (“How dare you leave without warning?”). Others feel completely numb, as if the world has gone quiet and blurry. There’s no time to brace yourself, no gradual letting go. It’s just gone.

When Death Is Expected

Anticipated death is different.  It’s more like walking a long road where you can see the horizon. Families navigating terminal illness or the decline of aging often live in two worlds at once: caring for someone who is still here, while quietly grieving the losses already happening along the way.

Maybe you’ve felt it; mourning the fading memory of a parent, the shrinking independence of a spouse, or the changing roles within your family. This is anticipatory grief, and it can be draining because it stretches on and on. You carry sadness alongside caretaking, all while waiting for a moment you don’t want to come.

When death finally arrives, people are often surprised by their own reactions. Relief and sorrow can show up at the same time. Relief that the suffering is over. Sorrow that the goodbye is final. And sometimes guilt sneaks in too: Why am I relieved when I should only feel sad? But here’s the truth: relief does not not mean relief that they are gone. It simply acknowledges the cost of watching someone you care about slowly fade away.

The Differences and Overlap

It’s tempting to wonder which is “easier”: sudden death or anticipated death.  And people ask me this all the time!!  The truth is, neither one is easier or harder. Sudden death leaves you stunned, scrambling to catch up, weighed down with “what ifs.”  While anticipated death stretches your heart thin over time, layering exhaustion and pre-grief long before the end.

Both can feel isolating, especially when the world expects you to “move on” at a pace that doesn’t match your reality.

What Helps 

Grief always needs companionship, but the kind of support can be different.

• In sudden death, what helps most is presence. Sitting with someone in silence, helping with everyday tasks, and resisting the urge to explain or fix.  (YOU CAN’T FIX THIS, DON'T TRY) The shock alone is heavy; your steadiness is the gift.  BE with them and let them feel seen and heard.

• In anticipated death, what helps most is validation. Caregivers may need to hear that their exhaustion, their mix of emotions, even their sense of relief; all of it is normal. Offering breaks, listening without judgment, and staying present after the death matters deeply.  Keep showing up
  

The Common Thread

Whether death arrives suddenly or after a long ending, grief doesn’t follow a schedule. There isn’t a day when your soul suddenly says, “I’m good, all better!” Instead, we carry our love forward in new ways.

If you’re grieving, and your experience doesn’t look like someone else’s, that doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong. It means your story with the person you loved was one-of-a-kind, and so is your grief.

Closing Thought

We don’t get to choose how death comes. But we do get to choose how we show up for one another in its wake. Sometimes that means steadying a friend who has just had their world torn in two. Sometimes it means holding space for a caregiver who is both relieved and devastated at once. In every case, compassion is the bridge between us.

Whether death is sudden or expected, the truth is the same: grief is love, learning to live in a world that looks completely different without the person you lost.

Addressing Common Fears About Dying

“I’m not scared of death.  I'm scared of dying.”  Boy, do I hear this a LOT.

If you’ve been following me for any amount of time you’ve heard me mention that dying is one of those topics most people would rather not touch with a ten-foot pole (or even a slightly shorter pole). We avoid it, we dance around it, we whisper about it behind our hands. And yet it’s the one experience every single one of us will share. If we can talk about birth, taxes, and whatever horror is lurking in our email inboxes, we can talk about death, too.

When people do finally open up about it, the same fears seem to show up again and again. And while each fear is deeply personal, there are some universal threads that weave through our human worries. Let’s take a look at a few of the most common fears about dying, and how we might soften them.

Fear #1: The Pain

When people think about dying, their first fear is often: Will it hurt?

The truth: sometimes dying involves discomfort, but there’s a lot we can do to manage it. Modern medicine has come a long way in making end-of-life care more comfortable. Hospice and palliative care teams specialize in pain management.  Not just physical pain, but also emotional, spiritual, and even relational pain.

What helps:

• Asking early for palliative or hospice support. You don’t have to wait until the “last days” for comfort care.  (In fact the worst choice is to wait too long!)

• Remembering that “dying” is a process, not a single dramatic moment. Pain tends to ebb and flow, and there are ways to ease it.

• Trusting your care team to advocate for you.  You do not have to suffer in silence.
  

Fear #2: Losing Control/Dignity

Dying can feel like the ultimate loss of control. Bodies change, independence shifts, and even making decisions can get harder. For people who’ve lived their lives calling all the shots, this can be terrifying.  (Me over here avoiding eye contact…..)

What helps:

• Advance care planning. Writing down your wishes (through advance directives, living wills, and conversations with your loved ones) keeps your voice present, even when you can’t speak.

• Choosing your environment. Many people don’t realize they have options: at home, in hospice centers, sometimes even in places that feel comforting and familiar.

• Focusing on small choices. Even if you can’t control the big picture, little decisions,  like what music plays, who visits, how your space is arranged, can matter deeply.
  

Fear #3: The Unknown

Even people of strong faith sometimes whisper: But what if I’m wrong? What if it’s just…nothing? That fear of the great unknown is wired into us. Our brains like certainty, and death is the biggest mystery of all.

What helps:

• Naming it out loud. Fear often grows in the dark but shrinks in the light of conversation.  What’s your worst fear?  What is your hope?

• Exploring your beliefs. Whether spiritual, religious, or philosophical, leaning into what feels true to you can provide grounding.

• Letting go of needing “proof.” Sometimes peace comes not from having the answers, but from leaning into the mystery.
  

Fear #4: Leaving Loved Ones Behind

For many, the hardest part isn’t dying.  It’s knowing we’ll leave people we love to grieve. Parents worry about children. Partners worry about spouses. Friends worry about friends.

What helps:

• Honest conversations. Saying the things that need to be said (“I love you,” “I’m proud of you,” “Please delete my browser history”) can bring peace.

• Legacy projects. Writing letters, recording stories, passing down recipes or traditions.  These can become anchors for loved ones.

• Trusting that grief, while heavy, is survivable. Humans are heartbreakingly resilient.
  

Fear #5: Being Alone

Dying can feel isolating. There’s a worry that no one will be there, or that others won’t understand what you’re experiencing.

What helps:

• Community support. Hospice volunteers, doulas, spiritual counselors, and loved ones can sit vigil.

• Ritual and presence. Sometimes it’s less about words and more about someone simply being there.  Holding a hand, offering silence, bearing witness.  (Hi!  Death Doulas can help here!)

• Reminding yourself: even if the final breaths are taken alone, you are never truly forgotten. Your life has already woven itself into countless others.
  

Fear #6: Dying “Badly”

We live in a culture that doesn’t show death often.  When it does, it’s usually dramatic, tragic, or messy and just unrealistic. People worry about losing dignity, about not having their wishes respected, or about their death being “too much” for others to handle.

What helps:

• Education. The more we understand what dying actually looks like, the less frightening it feels.

• Support systems. A death doula, hospice team, or trusted advocate can help ensure things unfold as close to your wishes as possible.

• Redefining dignity. Dignity isn’t about perfection; it’s about being cared for with respect and love, no matter the circumstances.
  

So, What Do We Do With These Fears?

The point isn’t to erase fear. Fear is so normal!!  It tells us we care about our lives, our loved ones, our sense of self. The point is to acknowledge it, name it, and then find ways to soften it so it doesn’t keep us from living fully while we’re here.

Talking about death doesn’t make it come faster (I promise!!). But it does make it less terrifying. The more we can name our fears, the more we can prepare, and the more room we have for peace, connection, and yes, even moments of joy at the end.

Because here’s the truth: death isn’t just an ending. It’s also a passage. And while none of us get to skip it, we do get to choose how we walk toward it.  Afraid and alone, or with courage, humor, and the love of those who walk beside us.

If your fear is getting the best of you and you just need someone to listen, please reach out.  

You Don’t Need Closure, You Need Space

Our culture is obsessed with “closure.” People want a neat bow tied around messy endings: the final conversation, the goodbye ritual, the explanation that makes it all make sense. Closure is sold to us like it’s a finish line you can sprint across, complete with balloons, confetti, and a medal that says Congratulations, you’re over it now!

But here’s the hard truth: closure is mostly a myth. What you actually need is space.

Closure is a Door Slam. Space is a Window Opening.

Closure implies finality.  If you just do this one more thing or have that one more conversation, or understand that one more reason, you’ll feel all resolved and ready to go about life. But grief doesn’t work like that. Life doesn’t work like that. We rarely get tidy explanations for the messes that rearrange our hearts.

Think about the times you’ve lost someone you love, whether through death, estrangement, or just the slow drifting apart that life sometimes demands. Did closure ever arrive in a perfect package? Did it erase the ache? Or did it leave you frustrated that the story still felt unfinished?

Space, on the other hand, is expansive. It’s permission. It’s not about shutting a door but about giving your heart room to breathe inside the new reality. You don’t have to understand it all, you just have to make room for what is.

Why Closure Keeps Us Stuck

The hunt for closure often backfires. It can trap us in loops of questions with no satisfying answers: Why did this happen? What could I have done differently?  What would they say if I could ask them one more thing?

Those are pretty normal questions, but if we believe that “closure” is waiting for us at the end of them, we’re signing up for disappointment. Closure demands we fix something that was never meant to be fixed. Space, instead, allows the wound to heal without demanding it vanish.

What Does Space Look Like, Then?

So what does it mean to give yourself space instead of chasing closure?

• Time without pressure. Space is stepping back from the urgency to “feel better” or move on. It’s acknowledging that grief operates on its own schedule, not one you can pencil into your planner.  (Yes I still use a paper planner, I’m that old)

• Physical and emotional breathing room. Space might mean setting boundaries with people who keep telling you how you should be doing. (“Have you tried going for a walk?” “Maybe you just need to forgive and forget.”) Sometimes space looks like muting them on social media or skipping the family gathering.

• Letting the story be incomplete. Maybe you never got the apology you deserved. Maybe you didn’t get to say goodbye. Maybe you don’t know why it ended the way it did. Space means living with that gap and not forcing yourself to stitch it closed with false explanations.

• Expanding into new meaning. Space is what allows you to carry your loss with you, not as a heavy burden, but as something woven into your story. You don’t “get over” it, you grow around it.
  

Closure is a Trap. Space is Freedom.

The reason closure feels so alluring is because it promises certainty. We want the pain to have an end point. But certainty is a flimsy thing; it doesn’t exist in relationships, in grief, in love, in loss. What does exist is capacity.  Our human ability to expand, to make space inside ourselves for what hurts and what heals.

You don’t need closure. You don’t need the bow tied, the door slammed, the “thank you for playing” end credits. You need space to be in process, to let grief stretch out on the couch next to you without demanding it leave. You need space to evolve, to carry your loss without having it define your entire existence.

Making Space in Real Life

If you’re wondering where to begin, here are some good places to start:

• When you feel that urge for closure rising up (“If only I had answers, I’d feel better”), pause. Name it for what it is: the longing for certainty.

• Ask yourself instead: What space do I need right now? Maybe it’s a quiet afternoon with no obligations. Maybe it’s a messy journal entry. Maybe it’s telling a trusted friend that you don’t need advice, just listening.

• Remember: space is an ongoing practice, not a one-time fix.
  

Closure is a locked room. Space is a field. Which sounds like a better place to heal?

How to Handle Family Tensions at the End of Life

Death doesn’t just bring one person’s life to a close.  That would be too easy.  Unfortunately, the death of a loved one often stirs up an entire family’s unresolved business. Old sibling rivalries, differences in values, guilt, and fear have a way of crawling out of the woodwork the moment a loved one is dying. And honestly? It can get messy. I’ve sat with families who were holding vigil one moment and arguing over funeral flowers the next. I’ve seen decades-old grudges reignited at the hospital bedside. If you’ve been through it, you know exactly what I mean.

The truth is, end-of-life isn’t just about medical decisions and logistics.  If it was, I wouldn’t be here writing this.  End-of-life is about navigating relationships under enormous emotional strain. So how do you handle family tensions when the stakes are this high?  I get asked about this a LOT so here are some thoughts from a  death doula.

What’s Really Going On Here?

Conflict around the end of life often isn’t about the surface issue. The fight over which hymn to play at the funeral isn’t really about music, it’s about someone feeling unseen, unheard, or unappreciated. The tension over who gets Mom’s wedding ring might really be about unhealed wounds of favoritism or neglect.

When you can pause and name the deeper layer; “I think this is more about us wanting to feel close to Dad than about which rehab facility we choose”.  You take some of the sting out of the argument. People may still disagree, but at least the real heartache is on the table.

Sometimes it takes an impartial 3rd party to ask these questions.  

What’s Worth Fighting For

Not every hill is worth dying on (pun FULLY intended). At the end of life, you’ll find yourself at crossroads: What kind of care does your loved one receive? Where will they be buried? Who gives the eulogy? These decisions matter, but not all of them matter equally.

Ask yourself: “Will this choice still matter to me a year from now?” If the answer is no, maybe it’s worth stepping back. Sometimes the most loving thing you can do is let go of being right and choose peace over winning.

We all make the best decisions with the information we have in that moment.  We don’t know how everything will play out in the end.

Create Clear Roles

One of the biggest sources of tension is confusion about who’s in charge. If there’s no clear power of attorney, no advance directive, or no spokesperson, suddenly everyone feels entitled to make decisions, and chaos quickly follows.

If possible, encourage your loved one to clarify who holds decision-making power before things get urgent. If it’s already too late for that, try to assign roles: one person handles communication with the care team, another organizes meals, another keeps extended family updated. Clear responsibilities can diffuse power struggles.

Bring in a Neutral Party

Sometimes the best move is to call in backup. A hospice social worker, chaplain, or even a death doula (oh hello there!) can help mediate difficult conversations. Families are often more willing to hear hard truths when they come from someone who isn’t carrying 40 years of history with them.

Don’t underestimate the power of having a calm, compassionate outsider in the room. They can hold space, translate medical jargon, and help everyone remember that the person dying, not the argument, is the real center of the moment.

Expect Emotions to Run High

When someone is dying, the air is charged with grief, fear, love, and regret. Of course people are going to say things they don’t mean or snap under pressure. Expecting everyone to behave perfectly is a recipe for disappointment.

It helps to reframe tense moments: “This isn’t about them being difficult; this is about them being heartbroken.” That doesn’t excuse harmful behavior, but it reminds you that pain is often the root. Sometimes just softening your interpretation can soften your response.

Keep the Focus on Love and Legacy

At the end of the day, most people want the same thing: to honor their loved one, to show up with love, and to feel like they did right by them. Remind each other of that shared goal when things get heated.

You might say: “Let’s not lose sight of the fact that Dad wanted us to be together. This moment is bigger than our disagreements.” Or, “We’re all grieving in our own ways, but what matters most is that Mom feels our love.” Anchoring back to love can reset the tone, even if just for a moment.

Final Thoughts

Handling family tensions at the end of life isn’t about creating a perfect, conflict-free experience. (If only)  It’s about remembering that grief makes us raw, scared, and sometimes unreasonable.  And then choosing compassion anyway.

If you’re in the middle of this right now, take a deep breath. You’re not alone, and you don’t have to navigate every landmine perfectly. Focus on what you can do: show up for your loved one, protect your own well-being, and keep steering the family, however imperfectly, toward love.

Because when the dust settles, most people don’t remember who won the argument about flowers. They remember the tenderness, the hands held, the quiet presence in the room. That’s the legacy worth fighting for.

If you need someone to help navigate trick conversations with your family, please reach out. 

Leaving a Legacy

Let’s talk about legacy!  This is one of my favorite things to do as a doula. I don't mean the fancy kind of legacy made for bronze plaques in stuffy libraries on a college campus. I’m talking about the real kind. The kind made of stories, scribbled notes, terrible jokes, worn-out recipes, and that weird humming sound your dad made when he was concentrating.

Legacy is what sticks when the body gives out and the casseroles stop coming. It’s what whispers, “I was here. I mattered. And here’s how you’ll remember me.”

If you’re dying, or loving someone who is, it can feel like time’s running out on all the things that still need saying. But that’s where legacy projects come in: part healing, part connection, part time capsule of the soul.

This is your permission to make something that lasts.

Ok Nikki, What Is this Legacy Project, Exactly?

A legacy project is anything that helps a person nearing death leave a meaningful imprint for those they love. It doesn’t have to be deep or spiritual (though it can be). It just has to be true.

It could be a letter. A quilt. A playlist. A garden. A recipe book with exactly zero measurements but very strong opinions about paprika. A story told into a phone and passed down through headphones and holidays.

The best ones aren’t fancy; they’re personal.

Why Legacy Projects Matter (Even If You Hate Crafty Stuff)

1. They give the dying person agency.
So much is taken from someone near the end: independence, privacy, control, even dignity. A legacy project gives some of that back. It says, “You still have something to give. You still have a voice.”

2. They help families start grieving with the person, not just after them.
There’s nothing like hearing your mom tell you what she really wants you to remember. Or watching your grandfather write his childhood stories in a shaky hand. It's heartbreaking, and healing.

3. They offer a place to put the love.
When you can’t fix or cure, you create. Legacy projects give caregivers and loved ones something to do that actually matters.

I’ve sat with families who are helping to record legacies and watching them all come together and reminisce is so utterly beautiful. 

Legacy Project Ideas (It doesn’t have to be a scrapbook!)

• Letters to the Future: Write one to each grandkid, or one for every big milestone (weddings, graduations, bad breakups, Mondays).

• Voice Memos or Video Diaries: Doesn’t have to be fancy. Just talk. Tell stories. Rant about your favorite shows. Say their names.  (Ahem: My Last Farewell)

• Recipe Box with Commentary: “Add garlic. No, more than that. No, more.”

• A Book of “Things I Wish I’d Said”: This one stings but wow, is it powerful.

• Handprint Art with Kids: Not just for preschoolers. It’s visceral. It’s physical. It's something to touch later when everything feels too quiet.

• Playlist of a Life: Songs that shaped them, comforted them, or made them dance like a fool in the kitchen.

• A "How-To" Book: For literally anything. How to fold the laundry the right way. (spoiler: hang everything or just wad it up. You’re welcome) How to deal with grief. How to love someone when they’re dying.
  

Things to Remember While Creating

1. It’s not about being profound, it’s about being real.
You don’t need perfect grammar or poetic metaphors. You need heart. Say the awkward stuff. Include the bad jokes.

2. Let it be messy.
Legacy isn’t clean. It’s complicated and beautiful and often a little bittersweet. That’s the point.

3. It's okay if it’s unfinished.
We all are, really. Leave room for the people you love to continue the story.

Legacy projects are not homework. They’re love letters disguised as whatever form you want them to take. They won’t fix the heartbreak of losing someone, but they do soften the edges. They give people something to hold, to hear, to remember.

And when the grief gets loud, those projects will whisper back:
"I was here. I loved you. You mattered to me."

Question to Ponder:
If you could leave behind one thing for the people who love you (a note, a lesson, a piece of you) what would it be? And what’s stopping you from starting it today?

Hey You, Who’s Still Very Much Alive: Write Your Damn Obituary

Yeah, I said it. Write your own obituary. Not because you’re morbid. Not because you’re being dramatic. But because it’s yours!  Your story, your weird quirks, your inside jokes, your favorite snacks, your hard-won wisdom. Why would you leave that up to someone else to cobble together while they’re knee-deep in casseroles and funeral brochures?

Writing your own obituary isn’t about giving up. It’s about claiming the mic before the final curtain. It’s an act of rebellion against erasure. It’s also a surprisingly powerful way to get real with yourself while you’re still here to do something about it.

::Cue Shia LaBeouf screaming “JUST DO IT!”::

Why You Should Write Your Obituary While You’re Still Breathing

1. It’s the ultimate reflection exercise.
Forget goal-setting journals and vision boards for a second. Writing your own obit forces you to answer the big stuff: Who are you, really? What have you actually done with your time? What do you hope people remember? It’s like Marie Kondo-ing your life!  Keep the stuff that sparks legacy, toss the rest.

2. You get to own your narrative.
Listen, if you don’t write it, your third cousin or your frazzled spouse might, between grief spirals and figuring out who’s bringing the deviled eggs to the wake. And they’ll probably leave out the weird and wonderful stuff that makes you you. Like how you once convinced your entire office to wear Halloween costumes in March. Or how you taught your kids to swear responsibly. Or how you cried every time you heard “Moon River.”  (I will not apologize for this)

3. It’s a gift to your people.
Grief is already heavy. Trying to summarize a person in three paragraphs while sobbing into Kleenex is cruel and unusual punishment. Writing your own saves them that pain. It gives them something to hold onto, a bit of your voice in the middle of the fog.

How to Actually Do It

First off: No, writing your obituary does not mean you’re going to die tomorrow. But it does mean you’re living with intention today.

Here’s how to start:

Step 1: Say the boring stuff first.
Get it out of the way. Name, birth date, where you were raised, family stuff. You can jazz it up later if you want (“Born under a Sagittarius moon in a blizzard, which explains a lot”). Note: BE CAREFUL ABOUT SECURE INFORMATION.  Identity theft of the deceased is stupid, but happens a lot.

Step 2: Talk about your people.
Who loved you? Who did you love? (Yes, include your cat if she’s been your ride-or-die since 2009.)

Step 3: Brag a little.
What are you proud of? Could be the business you built, the garden you obsessed over, or that time you won $50 at trivia night for knowing all the Spice Girls’ real names. (That counts.)

Step 4: Tell the truth.
Were you flawed? Good. Own it. Did you try anyway? Even better. Don’t write a LinkedIn summary. Write something that sounds like the real you. If you were a pain in the ass but also deeply loyal, say that.  (Hi.  I’m a pan in the ass)

Step 5: Leave a message.
This is the part people will cling to. Offer a line of comfort. A joke. A curse on whoever keeps mispronouncing your name. Or something tender, like “Love fiercely, nap often, and never turn down cookies.”

Real Talk

You don’t need to finish it today. You don’t need to make it perfect. Just start. Open a Google Doc. Jot notes on a napkin. Talk it out into your phone like a voice memo from the beyond.  Heck, have Chat GPT get you started.

Because one day, someone will look for your words. They’ll need them. And if you’ve written them down, raw and real and fully you, you’ll be offering something sacred: a map back to who you were. And a nudge toward who they might still become.

So go on. Write it while you’re alive enough to laugh about it.

And if it helps? Start it like this:
“[Your Name] died as they lived—surrounded by snacks, strong opinions, and at least one half-finished project.”

Question to Ponder:
If someone read your obituary tomorrow, would it sound like the life you meant to live? If not, what’s one small change you can make today to start living it on purpose?

Need help writing yours? Reach out! I can help.

Dear Caregiver

You, standing at the edge of someone else’s suffering, holding it like it’s your own.  This letter is for you.

I know you likely didn’t ask to be here. Not like this. Maybe it started with a slow unraveling: a diagnosis, a forgotten name, a hospital bracelet. Or maybe it came suddenly: a stroke, a fall, a phone call that split your life into before and after. However you got here, you stayed. That matters.

And I see you.

I see your exhaustion.  The kind that sinks into your bones, that no nap or cup of coffee can fix. You carry lists in your mind like grocery bags with the handles digging into your hands: meds at 8, physical therapy at 10, call the insurance company (again), try to remember when you last took a real breath.

You speak kindly when you're running on fumes. You show up when you'd rather disappear. You cry in the shower, then dry your face and go back to making lunch for someone who may or may not remember your name. That is bravery. No medals, no parades. This is the quiet, unglamorous courage of love in action.

And I see your cracks.

I know you wonder if you’re doing enough. (You are!)
I know you snap sometimes and feel guilty about it. (You're human!)
I know you grieve people who are still here.
And I know that in the middle of it all, you’ve started to lose pieces of yourself.

But here's the secret: those cracks? They're not weaknesses. They're proof that you're still soft, still open, still loving. They're how the light gets in, and out. They're what lets the rest of us see the truth of this sacred, heartbreaking, holy work.

Caregiving is love stretched thin. It’s loyalty with blisters. It’s the art of being present even when you’re barely hanging on.

And it is enough. Even when you feel like it isn’t.

You are not failing because you’re tired.
You are not selfish for needing rest.
You are not alone, even when it feels like the world has turned away and forgotten that you’re grieving someone in real time, one breath, one day, one decline at a time.

So let me say what maybe no one else has said lately:

Thank you.
Thank you for wiping foreheads and changing sheets and sitting through endless doctor visits.
Thank you for the whispered reassurances at bedtime.
Thank you for being the keeper of dignity in a system that often forgets it.

And please, don’t forget you in all of this. You’re still in there, under the schedules and pill bottles and piles of paperwork. You’re allowed to have needs. You’re allowed to be angry. You’re allowed to say this is too damn hard. It is.

So if today you need permission to rest, here it is.
If you need to scream into a pillow, do it.
If you need to sit in silence and cry, I’ll sit with you, right here in these words.
And if you need to hear that what you're doing matters more than you know, I’m telling you now: it does. You do.

This is not a job for the faint-hearted. This is trench work. Soul work. And yes, it will break you open in places you didn’t even know existed, but it will also expand you.

Caregiving is an act of fierce, holy love.

And I see you.

Love and Light,
Nikki the Death Doula

P.S.  And if you want a community of other caregivers who really get it, I’ve got you covered.  Come on over to Caregivers United.

Navigating End-of-Life Decisions Without a Will

Spoiler: It’s Not Great, But You’re Not Doomed

Let’s start with the obvious: having a will is a gift to your loved ones. It’s like leaving behind a map instead of making them guess your favorite hiking trail based on vague Facebook posts and half-remembered conversations.

But… what if there is no will?

Whether you’re dealing with the death of someone who didn’t have one, or you're staring down the reality that you haven’t written yours yet (No judgment, just a gentle nudge), the truth is: it’s complicated, but not impossible.

Here’s what it actually looks like to navigate the end-of-life decisions without a will and how to make it just a little less chaotic.

First of All: What Is a Will, and Why Does It Matter?

A will (formally, a "Last Will and Testament") is a legal document that lays out who gets what when someone dies (money, property, keepsakes, custody of pets, etc.) It can also name guardians for minor children and appoint someone (an executor) to handle the logistics.

Without a will, the law steps in and says, “Okay, we’ve got this, we’ll divide things our way.” That’s called dying intestate, and it basically means a probate court gets to sort it all out, following state laws that have nothing to do with family drama, nuance, or Aunt Marge’s emotional attachment to the wedding china.

So What Happens When Someone Dies Without a Will?

Short answer? The state decides. Long answer? It’s a hedge maze with an axe wielding maniac inside. Here’s what usually happens:

1. The court appoints an administrator. This is like an executor, but chosen by the court. It’s often a spouse or adult child, but not always. Cue potential fights.

2. Assets are distributed according to state law. Most states follow a strict formula. Spouse gets X%, kids get Y%, etc. Unmarried partners, stepchildren, best friends, or devoted caregivers? They get nothing, unless specifically named somewhere else (like on a life insurance policy or a joint bank account).

3. It takes longer.  Probate without a will can stretch out for months, even years, especially if the family doesn’t agree. It’s like group-texting in grief: slow, emotional, and full of miscommunication.  And no funny gifs of cats to  break things up a little

4. It costs more.  More court time. More paperwork. More legal fees. Less peace.  Mom wanted you to get that $100k and now you're lucky to get half.
   

But It’s Not Just About the Money

End-of-life decisions go way beyond “who gets the house.” If there's no will, and no advance directive or power of attorney in place, decisions about healthcare, funeral arrangements, and even what to do with the body are often up for grabs. And let me tell you: grief brings out the best and worst in people.

• One sibling wants cremation, the other insists on a traditional burial.

• A long-term partner isn’t legally recognized and gets shut out of planning.

• No one knows if they wanted life support stopped or extended.

These are not hypotheticals. This is the real-life fallout of not planning ahead.

If You’re the One Left to Navigate It

Okay, so the will is missing, or maybe never existed. Now what?

• Gather documents: Look for deeds, titles, insurance policies, bank accounts. Anything with a named beneficiary will bypass the will anyway.

• Apply for administrator status: You may need to go through probate court to get appointed.

• Check for wishes: Some people jot things down informally (in a journal, in texts, even in voice memos). It may not be legally binding, but it can guide you in making decisions that feel true to who they were.

• Call in help: A probate attorney can save you time, confusion, and family feuds. They’re not just for the wealthy.
  

If You’re Still Alive (Hi!), Make It Easier on Your People

Let this be your sign to stop putting off your own planning. Even if you’re young. Even if you’re healthy. Even if you don’t have much money.

Because death doesn’t wait for your calendar to open up.

Start with the basics:

• Make a will (you can DIY with online templates or see an attorney)

• Name your power of attorney

• Write an advance directive for medical care

• Talk to your people, don’t make them guess

It doesn’t have to be fancy. It just has to exist.

A Gentle Reminder

You don’t have to do it all today. But do something. The reality is, death is hard enough. Don’t make your loved ones untangle your life in the middle of their grief.

Because they will already be exhausted. And hurting. And missing you like hell.

Leaving a plan behind, even a messy one, is an act of love.

A Question to Ponder:
If something happened to you tomorrow, who would be left guessing? What one thing could you clarify today?

Need help navigating difficult decisions? Let me know!

Can We Please Stop Ghosting the Grieving?

Look, I get it. Grief is messy. It's uncomfortable. It doesn’t follow a script or timeline. And for those watching from the outside, it can feel like trying to comfort a tornado.

But can we please, for the love of all things good and holy, stop ghosting people when they’re grieving?

It’s one thing to disappear from a group text because you’re overwhelmed by memes and notifications. It’s another thing entirely to vanish from someone’s life because you don’t know what to say after their dad dies. Or their baby. Or their partner. Or their sense of self after a chronic illness diagnosis.

That kind of disappearing act? It doesn’t go unnoticed. It adds another layer of hurt to an already unbearable pile. It says, “Your pain is too big for me.” It says, “I’m uncomfortable, so I’m choosing silence.” It says, “You’re on your own.”

And that’s just not okay.

Grief Is Not Contagious

SURPRISE! Grief is not contagious. You will not “catch it” by sitting next to someone who’s grieving. But maybe you will catch a glimpse of your own mortality. You’ll be reminded that people die, and love ends, and the world is unfair sometimes.

Is that scary? Doi.

But grief is also one of the most human experiences we have. It’s the tax we pay for loving people. And when someone is drowning in it, the answer is not to walk away and hope someone else has a life preserver, it’s to wade in. Even if you don’t have the right words. Even if all you have to offer is a stiff drink and a “This sucks, I love you.”

Why Do We Ghost the Grieving?

The ghosting isn’t always malicious. It’s usually born of awkwardness. People don’t know what to say. They’re afraid they’ll say the wrong thing. They think, “She has family around, she probably doesn’t need me.” Or “It’s been a while, he’s probably over it by now.”

We tell ourselves this because it’s more comfortable than the truth: grief is inconvenient. It doesn’t wrap up nicely. And we’ve never been taught how to show up for it.

But we can learn.

Show Up Imperfectly

If someone you love is grieving, you don’t need a perfect speech. You need presence.

You need to text even if they don’t respond.
You need to drop off dinner even if they forget to say thank you.
You need to check in even if it’s been six months or a year and everyone else has moved on.

You don’t have to fix it. (Spoiler: you can’t fix it.) You just have to witness it.

Say:

• “I don’t know what to say, but I’m here.”

• “I was just thinking about them today. Do you want to talk?”

• “I made too much soup, and I’m dropping it off. No pressure to answer the door.”

It’s not about grand gestures. It’s about staying. Even when it’s awkward. Especially when it’s awkward.

The Damage of Disappearing

When we ghost the grieving, we reinforce the belief that grief should be hidden. That it’s something to get over quickly and quietly. We make people feel like they have to perform “being okay” just to keep from being abandoned.

But grief is already isolating. It's already a strange, underwater world. When the texts dry up, when the door stays shut, when the casseroles stop, the grieving are left to wonder if their pain has made them unlovable.

It hasn’t.

What’s become rare is a community that knows how to hold pain without turning away.

Let’s Do Better

Let’s be those people who don’t disappear. Who don’t change the subject. Who don’t wait for the “right” time.

Let’s sit with the mess. Let’s drop the platitudes and say, “Yeah, this is awful, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Let’s normalize sticking around for the long haul, for the anniversaries, for the days that sneak up out of nowhere.

Because ghosting the grieving doesn’t protect them. It just teaches them to suffer in silence.

And they deserve so much more than that.

A Question to Ponder:
Who in your life might be carrying invisible grief and how can you gently, imperfectly, let them know you're still here?

The Role of Forgiveness at the End of Life

Forgiveness. It sounds nice in theory, like a Hallmark card sentiment or something your therapist suggests when they want you to do emotional squats. But at the end of life, forgiveness gets a lot less theoretical. When time starts running short, the unresolved hurts, bitter feuds, and quiet regrets start rising like uninvited ghosts at the bedside. And here’s the kicker: they don’t just haunt the dying. They leave their mark on the people who stay behind, too.  Yeah. 

So, what role does forgiveness really play in dying well?

Forgiveness Isn’t Just About “Them”

When we talk about forgiveness at the end of life, most people immediately think about asking someone else to forgive them.  Or figuring out whether they can forgive someone who wronged them. But that’s only a small part of the story.

The truth? Forgiveness is also profoundly internal. Many people nearing death are grappling with how to forgive themselves.  For not being the perfect parent, for working too much, for the drinking, the silence, the absence, the mistakes.  Maybe the time they blew up the garage trying to deep fry a frozen turkey on Thanksgiving. Sometimes what’s hardest to face isn’t what someone did to us, but what we did (or didn’t do) to someone we love.

And if you’ve spent a lifetime bottling up shame or regret, those emotional debts don’t magically disappear when hospice gets called. If anything, they come rushing in with interest.

Forgiveness as Emotional Hospice

You know how physical hospice care focuses on comfort, not cure? Emotional forgiveness works the same way. It doesn't rewrite history or make everything feel better. It doesn't excuse harm. But it can make the dying lighter. Less burdened. It allows people to shift from pain to peace, even if the circumstances haven’t changed.

Forgiveness is not a transaction. It’s not “I forgive you if you say sorry” or “I’ll let it go when they admit what they did.” Sometimes we never get the apology. Sometimes the person is gone, or still toxic. And yet, the act of letting go can still be a radical kindness you do for yourself.

At the end of life, many people begin to understand what the rest of us try to forget: we don't get a do-over. The energy we spend carrying old wounds could be used to say one last “I love you.” Or hold a hand. Or close our eyes in peace instead of fear.

The Fear of Opening the Door

Now, I’m not here to peddle the idea that everyone needs to tie up all their emotional loose ends with a perfect bow before they die. Life isn’t an episode of This Is Us. Some people hold on to their anger for reasons that make complete sense. Some wounds are deep. Some relationships are dangerous. Not everyone deserves a spot at the bedside, and forgiveness doesn’t mean you hand them an invitation.

But what I am saying is this: sometimes, people wait too long. They think they have time to have “the talk,” to write the letter, to soften. And then they don’t. And that delay can leave a bitter legacy for them, and for those who loved them.

I’ve seen people whisper forgiveness into the ears of someone already unconscious, because it felt too vulnerable to say it when the person could respond.  More often I’ve seen it tearfully said after death has occurred.  And I’ve seen families hold their own grief because the one dying couldn’t (or maybe wouldn’t) take that step.

What Forgiveness Can Look Like

Forgiveness doesn’t always come with a speech. I help clients all the time in clearing their hearts as best I can.  Forgiveness could be:

• Writing a letter, even if you never send it.

• Saying “I forgive you” aloud to a photo, a grave, or the ceiling.

• Apologizing, not perfectly, but sincerely.

• Letting go of the need to hear “I’m sorry.”

• Choosing to remember someone’s whole story, not just their worst chapter.
  

A Parting Gift

At the end of life, forgiveness is a gift. Not just for the person dying, but for everyone in their orbit. It frees up energy for love, connection, and legacy. It allows space for presence. And in a world where so much is out of our control, forgiveness can be one of the last acts of agency we have.

If you’re sitting with someone in their final chapter, or preparing for your own someday, ask:
Is there something you need to say?
Someone you need to release?
A burden you’re still carrying?

You might not get a perfect ending. But you can write a peaceful one.

Question to Ponder:
What would it feel like to forgive someone who never said they were sorry? What might it change for you?

Dealing with Death Anxiety: Strategies for Acceptance

Thanatophobia.  That’s a mouthful.  And a heartful.  In case you don’t know; Thanatophobia is the intense fear of death or dying.

Death anxiety is a beast, too.  I see it all the time. I’m not quite to the level of phobia but I have a healthy fear too.  Usually for me it makes an awkward drop in  at 3 a.m. when my brain decides to throw a surprise party titled “What If I Just Stop Existing?”

For some people this is just a vague unease. For others, it’s an ever-present hum in the background of life. And in a culture that avoids talking about death like it’s a contagious rash, it makes sense we’d feel freaked out. But here’s the thing: death anxiety doesn't mean something’s wrong with you. It means you’re human.

The goal isn't to eliminate that fear entirely (good luck with that), but to develop a relationship with it that feels less like panic and more like respect. So let’s get into some grounded, gentle, and maybe even slightly rebellious strategies for accepting the one truth we can’t escape: we're all going to die.

1. Name It to Tame It

(You know I love my rhymes!)  Start by acknowledging the anxiety. Don’t mumble it like a toddler being forced to apologize, say it out loud!!  “I’m scared of dying.” There. You said it. You didn’t burst into flames. 

Death anxiety, like anxiety as a whole, thrives in silence and shame. When we say it out loud, journal about it, or talk to someone we trust, we take away some of its power. We drag it out of the dark corner and let it stretch its legs in the daylight. You’re not weird for feeling this way. You’re honest.

2. Learn What You’re Actually Afraid Of

Death is a giant umbrella term. Often what we’re really afraid of isn’t death itself, but something more specific:

• The pain of dying?

• Leaving loved ones behind?

• Ceasing to exist?

• Regret about not living fully?

• The mystery of “what’s next?”
  

Get curious. Unpack the fear. Give it specifics. Sometimes the fear is less about death and more about the living we feel we haven’t done.

3. Engage with Mortality

This one sounds backwards, but stay with me here. Avoidance makes fear stronger. So try leaning in, gently. Watch films or read books that deal with death in thoughtful ways. Visit a cemetery and notice the peacefulness. Have conversations with older people about what they think about death (they’re often shockingly chill about it). 

When we normalize death, it stops feeling like an intruder and starts feeling more like an inevitable guest. Still a guest you might not want to hang with every day, but one you’re not actively hiding from.

4. Plan for the End

Want to feel a surprising sense of peace? Fill out your advance directive. Pick your power of attorney. Write a few notes about what kind of memorial you’d want. These aren't morbid tasks; they're acts of love. They say, “I know I won’t be here forever, but I can still leave some clarity behind.”  And what a gift for your loved ones to not have to panic buy a casket.

And weirdly, having a plan in place tends to ease anxiety, not amplify it. Because now you’re not at the mercy of the unknown. You’ve looked Death in the eye and said, “Okay, I see you. Here’s how I want this to go.”

5. Practice Tiny Acts of Presence

At the core of death anxiety is often a disconnection from the present. We spin out into “what if” or “when will,” and miss the only thing we actually have: now.

So practice presence. You don’t have to meditate for an hour a day on a mountain top. Just breathe deeply while your coffee brews. Really listen when your kid tells you something weird about worms. Laugh. Cry. Taste your food. These small acts are how we say yes to life. And the more we say yes to life, the less we fear its end.

6. Talk to Someone Who’s Not Scared to Talk About It

This could be a therapist. It could be a chaplain. It could be a death doula (oh, hi!). Sometimes you need a guide who doesn’t flinch when the topic of death comes up. Because this isn’t just about managing anxiety, it’s about rewriting your relationship to mortality. About integrating the reality of death into your life without letting it hijack your joy.  Guys seriously this is what I DO.

You don’t have to do this alone. And you definitely don’t have to carry it quietly.

7. Accept That It Is Inevitable (And Let That Change You)

This isn’t a motivational poster moment, but here’s the truth: we are all going to die. No workaround. No app to fix it.

And once you accept that, like…REALLY accept that, something wild can happen. You might start living differently. You might stop waiting for the “perfect time” to do something. (It doesn’t exist) You might speak up more, forgive faster, hold boundaries like a boss, or love more recklessly.

That’s the gift inside death anxiety. It reminds us of our aliveness.

Final Thoughts (But Not like….Final Final)

Death anxiety doesn’t mean you’re weird. It means you’ve realized something important: this life is fragile. And while you can't outsmart death, you can walk with it. Hand in hand. Nervous, maybe. But braver than before.

So take a breath. You’re still here. Let that be enough for now.

A Question to Ponder:
What would you do differently today if you accepted that death isn’t a threat, but a teacher?

Your Grandmother Was Right: Death Is Inevitable, But We Can Still Do It Better

Your grandmother probably had a lot of opinions. Some questionable (like  the ol’ tissue up the sleeve thing), and some that hit you right in the soul. Like when she’d wave a hand at the sky and say, “Well honey, we all go sometime.”

She wasn’t wrong.

Death is inevitable. You, me, that guy with the leaf blower who starts at 7:00 a.m. on Saturdays, we’re all going to die. And while most of us would prefer to avoid the topic entirely, pretending we can outwit mortality with supplements, green juice, and a well-filtered Instagram feed, Grandma didn’t play that game. She looked it square in the face.

But here’s the thing: inevitability doesn’t have to be messy.  We can’t dodge death, but we sure as hell can do it better.

Death Isn’t the Problem. It's Avoidance.

We’ve built a culture that talks around death like it’s a shameful secret. We whisper it. We cover it in euphemisms. We say "passed away," "gone to a better place," or "no longer with us," as if the real word might conjure it into the room.  

But death already is in the room. It always has been.

It’s in the aging dog curled at your feet. It’s in the wilted flowers on the table. It’s in all the new aches and pains I seem to keep developing.  

When we avoid talking about death, we don’t make it go away, we just make it harder. We leave families floundering in the wake of “I don’t know what they would’ve wanted.” We let fear fill the silence instead of love, planning, and meaning.

We deserve better than that.

A Better Death Isn’t Perfect, It’s Present

Doing death better doesn’t mean it’s clean or tidy, or even predictable. There will still be snotty tears and grief that wraps around you like a vice. It doesn’t mean you’ll feel “ready,” or that loss won’t gut you. But it does mean that we can show up more fully.  For ourselves and for each other.

A better death means:

• Talking to the people you love about what matters most to you.

• Having the awkward conversations now so they’re not impossible later.

• Making choices ahead of time about your care, your stuff, your legacy (and yes, even your funeral playlist).  Ahem.
  

It means allowing death to be part of life, not some dark secret we shove in the attic.

A better death might look like being surrounded by familiar voices, favorite music, and the smell of soup on the stove. It might mean writing letters to your people or letting them write theirs to you. It might mean dying alone, or it might mean choosing medical options with intention, but always, always with clarity and care.

Grandma Was Also Right About the Cake

While we’re on the subject, let’s not forget another gem from grandma: “Life’s short, eat the cake.”

She meant joy. She meant presence. She meant don’t wait for some perfect time that may never come. And that’s part of doing death better, too.

Because acknowledging death doesn’t make life less vibrant. It makes it more vivid.

We start saying the things we’ve held in our mouths for too long. We take the trip. We forgive ourselves. We gather around the table. When we know our time is finite, we stop wasting it on things that don’t matter. 

Let me repeat that: WHEN WE KNOW OUR TIME IS FINITE WE STOP WASTING IT.

Let’s Make This Easier on the Living

And maybe most practically doing death better means doing right by the people we leave behind.

Leave them something besides a mess. Leave them a plan. Leave them permission to grieve in their own weird, beautiful way. Leave them with stories you told and stories you wrote down.

Don’t make them become private investigators trying to decode your will, your passwords, or whether you wanted to be composted or turned into a firework.

(Yes, those are real options. And yes, Grandma would’ve had thoughts.)

So Here’s the Invitation

Let’s stop whispering. Let’s start preparing. Let’s remember that facing death doesn’t kill the joy, it multiplies it.

Your grandmother was right: death is inevitable.

But we? We can still do it better.

A Question to Ponder:
What’s one small, meaningful step you could take today to prepare for a better death.  For you, or for someone you love?

Grief Holds us Hostage

Ok so one of my most favorite movies of all time is a lively little raunchy humor movie called “Drop Dead Fred.”  Long story short, the imaginary friend comes back into a woman’s life as she is an adult and wreaks havoc.  There is one scene where he goes outside, covers his shoes in dog poo and goes into her mother’s freshly cleaned white living room and proceeds to spread it everywhere.

That’s grief.  

Grief doesn’t knock politely.  It bursts in and spreads dog crap on your white sofa.

It doesn’t care about your to-do list.
It doesn’t care that you're already late picking up the kids or that you're still supposed to smile at work.

Basically; Grief takes us hostage.
It ties your focus to a chair and demands your full attention. Some days, it whispers. Other days, it screams.
But most days? It just sits there like an invisible weight strapped to your back. Heavy, unseen, and misunderstood.

And the worst part?  You can look totally “fine” while carrying it. You might laugh at a joke. You might get groceries. You might even remember to wear pants.

But inside, there’s this endless loop playing in your head that no one else can hear: They’re gone. They’re gone. They’re still gone.

There’s a kind of quiet madness in grief. A disorienting blend of I can’t believe this happened and Why hasn’t the world stopped spinning?

You might find yourself crying in the frozen food aisle because a bag of peas reminded you of something you didn’t even know you’d forgotten.  You might avoid a song, a room, a date on the calendar like it's laced with poison.

Grief doesn’t play fair. It kidnaps your sense of normal and offers nothing in return but this wild, uncomfortable, soul-altering ache.

And yet. (There’s always an “and yet.”)

Even though grief holds us hostage, it’s not just a tormentor.  It’s also the evidence of love.
It’s the echo of connection. It’s the price we pay for having let ourselves care so deeply.

Grief is brutal, yes. But it’s also sacred.

It demands stillness in a world that won’t stop moving.  It cracks us open so something true can rise. And if we’re brave enough to stay in the room with it, we may find that it begins to loosen its grip.

Not all at once, (And certainly not neatly.) but slowly and surely.

So if you’re currently tied to grief’s chair listening to its schemes,  just know:
You’re not broken.  You’re not failing.
You’re grieving.

And that is a sacred kind of survival.

What I’ve Learned from Sitting at the Bedside

People think death is all grand last words and dramatic exits. But here’s the thing: it’s mostly quiet.  (NOT ALWAYS)  Uneventful in the way a sunrise is uneventful, unless you’re paying close attention.

I’ve sat at a few bedsides. Some were surrounded by family, hands held tightly. Others were alone.

Each time, I learn something. Not in a  life-changing “wow, what a teachable moment” kind of way. More like a deep knowing that settles in your chest, wordless but still real.

Here are a few things death has brought to me from the bedside:

1. Silence is not empty.

We’re so trained to fill the air.  To explain, to soothe, to fix. But there’s power in silence.  Some of the most sacred moments I’ve witnessed happened when no one said a thing.  Just breath, presence, maybe a hand on a hand. That’s enough. Sometimes, it’s everything.

2. People die how they lived.

The control freaks? They’re managing their exit like a project plan. The comedians? Still cracking jokes with their final breaths. The tender-hearted? Worried about everyone else until the very end. There’s no right way to die, but personality doesn’t stop when dying starts.

3. It’s okay to not know what to say.

There are no magic words. The dying don’t need perfect speeches, they need you.  Your presence. Your willingness to show up and stay. Sometimes “I’m here” is the most healing thing a person can hear. 

4. Touch matters.

I get asked a lot, “Can I touch them?” Almost with a need for permission and acknowledgment that it’s not contagious.  YES.  Please do!  (Assuming they are comfortable with physical touch)  kiss their forehead, hold their hand, rub lotion on their dry feet.  I can see myself climbing right into the bed with my mom.  These gestures speak volumes. Touch says, You are still human. You are still loved. You are not alone.

5. Dying is part of living.

I know that sounds obvious, but most people live like it’s not. Sitting at the bedside has taught me that dying isn’t the opposite of life, it’s part of it. It strips away the nonsense and leaves behind what’s real: love, presence, truth.  It’s the very thing that gives our lives meaning.

I never leave a bedside unchanged. Every single time, something in me softens. My priorities shift. My grip on petty stuff loosens.

It’s humbling. It’s sacred. And yeah, sometimes it’s awkward, icky, or just hard as hell.

But if you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to be at someone’s side as they leave this world, let me tell you it’s not about knowing what to do. It’s about being willing to be there.

Fully.
Quietly.
Bravely.

That’s where the real learning happens.

I Don’t Have All the Answers. But I Do Have Snacks and Tissues!

Let’s get these things out of the way:
- I am not a walking Hallmark card.
- I don’t have the magic words.
-I don’t have a laminated checklist of “how to grieve properly.”
- I don’t even have a universally flattering black outfit for funerals.

But what do I have?

Tissues. Snacks. A weird sense of humor sometimes.  And the ability to sit in the dark with you without flipping on the light and saying, “Chin up, buttercup!”

Being a death doula isn’t about having all the answers, it’s about being willing to ask the hard questions and then not running away when the silence that follows feels like it might swallow us whole.  It’s easy to ask someone “Hey, how are you really feeling today?”  The hard part is really listening to the answer.

I’ve sat beside people who were dying and didn’t know how to say goodbye.

I’ve listened to grieving adult children who apologized for crying too loudly, without making them feel shameful for snotty, ugly crying.

I’ve passed cookies to people who didn’t know they were hungry until the sugar hit their bloodstream and reminded them they were still alive.

Here’s the thing no one wants to admit: We can’t fix death. Also, we can’t solve grief. And yet both keep sticking their stupid hairy noses in our faces.  Death doulas, we still show up. Not with the perfect words. But with presence.

Not with answers. But with comfort.

Not with solutions. But with a soft place to land.

That might look like:

• Holding space while someone makes impossible medical decisions.

• Sitting quietly while the weight of loss settles into their bones.

• Handing over a granola bar because, no, you haven’t eaten today and yes, it does matter.
  

The world tells us to be strong, keep moving, stay productive.  “Don’t worry, you’ll get over it!”  Shudder. But grief? Death? They don’t care about your schedule, your diet, or even your livelihood.

So I slow things down. I bring the Kleenex and the crackers and the non-judgmental eye contact. I ask, “How can I support you right now?”and then I actually listen.  What?!  I know.

If you’re looking for someone who’s got it all figured out, that’s not me. But if you want someone who can walk beside you through the messy, holy, aching beauty of this part of life?

I’ve got snacks in my bag and a seat on the couch with your name on it.

Come as you are. No answers required.

Personalized Rituals for the Dying and Their Families

Honoring the Journey with Meaning and Heart

When someone is nearing the end of life, time seems to warp. Every moment holds more weight. There’s a sacredness to this in-between space where grief and love sit side by side, where goodbyes are both whispered and unsaid. In this space, rituals can be an anchor. A comfort. A way to express the unspeakable and make the invisible threads of connection visible again.

But here’s the thing: rituals don’t have to be religious or traditional to be powerful. They don’t have to be performed in a temple or follow a script. The most meaningful rituals are the ones that feel right to you.  Personal, honest, maybe even a little quirky. They don’t have to make sense to anyone else. They just have to fit.

As a death doula, I’ve seen firsthand how personalized rituals can bring peace, create connection, and help both the dying and their loved ones find grounding in the chaos. So what are these rituals and how can we create your own?

What is a ritual, anyway?

At its core, a ritual is a symbolic act performed with intention. It’s a way to mark a moment, hold space for emotion, and make meaning out of something that might otherwise feel unbearable. Rituals can be simple or elaborate. Silent or spoken. Individual or shared. There’s no “right” way to do it, only what feels authentic to you and your people.  Want the whole crystals, candles and sage thing?  On it!  Want a kegger with metal music? Done!  Want a big feast happening downstairs with card games and laughter?  You got it!

Why rituals matter at the end of life

When someone is dying, there’s so much we can’t control. But rituals give us something to do with our hands, our hearts and our grief. They offer:

• Connection – between the dying person and their loved ones, between the present and the past, between the living and the mystery of what comes next.

• Meaning – they help us tell a story about what this life meant, who this person is, and what we carry forward.

• Presence – rituals ask us to slow down, to witness, to honor the moment rather than rush past it.

Creating personalized rituals: Start with the person

When I’m crafting a ritual with a client, I obviously center on the person who is dying. What do they love? What are their values, passions, quirks, or traditions? What brings them peace or joy? Here are a few examples to inspire you:

A Music Goodbye

A woman in hospice had been a choir director for decades. Her family organized a living room singalong with her favorite hymns and pop songs, harmonizing around her bed. Her eyes lit up. She mouthed the words. That ritual became a kind of spiritual balm for everyone present.

A Memory Jar

One family placed a large glass jar on the bedside table. Every visitor was invited to write down a favorite memory, quote, or inside joke. The dying person read one aloud each day. It was comforting, funny, and deeply affirming. After she died, the jar remained a treasure trove of stories her family could revisit anytime.

Last Words & Legacy

One man who loved books asked each of his children to write him a “chapter” about their relationship, what they’d learned from him, what they wanted to say. They compiled it into a simple bound book, read it to him, and placed it in his hands when he died. It was sacred, personal, and completely theirs. (And what a gift to his loved ones left behind!)

Touchstones & Talismans

Sometimes a ritual can be as simple as holding hands and saying a blessing. Or lighting a candle each evening. Or placing meaningful objects on a bedside altar like a photo, a feather, a childhood toy, a seashell from a favorite vacation.

Involving the whole family

Personalized rituals can help families feel connected during a time when emotions often run high. Inviting others to contribute makes the process communal, rather than isolating. Some ideas:

• Create a family playlist of the dying person’s favorite songs to play in their final days.

• Designate a “ritual keeper” who lights a candle or reads a favorite quote each day.

• Record voice messages or video notes from faraway friends and family to play for the dying person.

• Cook their favorite meal and eat it together in their honor, even if they can’t eat anymore, the smells and sounds are comforting!

Continuing the ritual

Rituals don’t have to end with the last breath. Some families create post-death rituals like: writing letters and burying them with the person, carrying a special object or wearing a piece of their clothing for a set period of mourning or gathering on anniversaries to share stories and light candles.

These small acts remind us that love doesn’t end. It changes form.

Make it yours

There’s no guidebook for dying well or grieving perfectly. But rituals, especially the ones you create with love and intention, can help make the unbearable a little more bearable. They give shape to the formless and voice to what often goes unspoken.

So let go of the pressure to do it “right.” Trust your gut. Ask, what would feel meaningful here? Then do that. Whether it’s a bedside toast, a poetry reading, a song, or one last dance party, ritual is anything you do on purpose, with love.

And that, in the end, is enough.

Coping with a Terminal Diagnosis: How a Death Doula Can Help

Finding out you have a terminal illness is like having the floor drop out from beneath you.  Or worse; having the Kool Aid Man burst through your freshly painted wall.  One minute you're living out your life of work, parenting, making dinner and trying to mute that obnoxious group cat someone added you to, and the next everything stops. Time warps. The world tilts. Whether the diagnosis is expected or comes out of nowhere, it sets off an emotional earthquake that rattles through every corner of your life.

There’s grief, of course. But there’s also fear, confusion, loneliness, and that strange, hollow feeling that you’re suddenly living in a parallel universe where everyone else still believes in next year. Coping with a terminal diagnosis isn’t just about facing death. It’s about navigating the messy, tender, painful, and even beautiful terrain between now and then. That’s where a death doula comes in.

So, what is a death doula?

Ok I hope you know this by now but in case you’re  new here….A death doula (also known as an end-of-life doula) is a non-medical professional trained to support people emotionally, spiritually, and practically at the end of life. Think of us as guides.  Not because we have all the answers, but because we know the terrain. We walk beside you through the unknown. We sit with the big questions. We help make space for grief and laughter. For planning and presence. For death and life.

Holding space for the storm

After a terminal diagnosis, the first wave is often emotional. Shock, denial, anger, guilt, fear, sorrow, they all swirl around, sometimes in exhausting cycles. A death doula doesn’t come in to “fix” these feelings (because they aren’t broken). We come in to help hold them.

We offer a steady presence. A listening ear. A safe place to fall apart or rage or weep or ask “why me?” for the hundredth time. You don’t have to filter your feelings with us. We’re not here to sugar-coat or tell you to “stay positive.” We’re here to validate your pain, your confusion, and your truth without judgment.  So many times I hear that someone doesn’t want to “annoy” their loved ones by constantly talking about it.  Honey, I got you.

Navigating the logistics (aka the "unsexy but essential" stuff)

A terminal diagnosis often brings an avalanche of decisions: Advance directives, care preferences, funeral planning, legacy projects, hospice enrollment, family communication, sorting out who gets the Pez  dispenser collection. It’s a lot. And trying to tackle it all while you’re emotionally reeling is like trying to pack for a trip you didn’t plan and don’t want to take.

A death doula can help untangle the practical threads. We walk you through the choices ahead.  We’re not there to push an agenda, but to empower YOU. Whether it’s completing your advanced directives, writing letters to loved ones, or exploring what kind of vigil you’d like when the time comes, we’re here to make the overwhelming feel manageable. One piece at a time.

Supporting the whole person (not just the diagnosis)

Doctors treat illness. Doulas tend the person. That means we care just as much about your comfort and emotional well-being as your medical team does about your treatment. We talk about your values, your legacy, your fears, your hopes. We might help you create a memory project with your loved ones. Or co-write a goodbye letter. Or sit quietly with you as you reflect on your life.

We recognize that dying is a deeply human, often sacred experience. You’re not just a “patient”, you’re still a parent, a partner, a poet, a prankster, a whole person. Our role is to honor that. To help you find meaning, dignity, and agency in your final chapter.

Easing the burden for loved ones

A terminal diagnosis doesn’t just impact the person receiving it, it shakes the whole support system. Family and friends are often overwhelmed, scared, unsure how to help, or burned out from caregiving. A death doula can be a lifeline for them, too.

We support caregivers by offering respite, guidance, and emotional validation. We facilitate tough conversations. We help navigate family dynamics. Sometimes we just sit in the kitchen and make tea (or a martini) while a spouse cries. 

Making space for what matters

In the end, death doulas don’t have magic wands. We can’t change the diagnosis. We can’t take away the pain of what’s coming. But we can help you live fully in the time you have. We can help you reclaim a sense of control. We can help you find your voice, your peace, and your own way of walking toward the unknown with courage, with grace, and maybe even with a little humor.

Because even in the face of death, there’s still room for meaning. For connection. For truth-telling and storytelling and belly laughs and quiet moments that take your breath away in the best kind of way.

If you or someone you love is navigating a terminal diagnosis, you don’t have to do it alone. Reach out to a death doula. We’re not afraid of the dark. And we’ll walk with you until the end with compassion, presence, and heart.

Grief vs. Anticipatory Grief: Understanding the Difference

Let’s get one thing straight: grief isn’t just something that shows up after the funeral casserole has been served. It doesn’t wait politely until someone has died to make its entrance. Sometimes, it busts through the wall Kool Aid man style way ahead of time, plops itself on your couch, and eats all your snacks. That uninvited guest? That’s anticipatory grief.

And while grief and anticipatory grief share the same last name, they are not twins. They’re more like close cousins; related, overlapping, but definitely their own emotional beasts. So let’s break them down.

Grief

If you’ve been following me at all, you probably know a lot of this already.  Grief is the emotional response to loss.  Any loss. When we lose someone or something, grief is the companion that walks with us through the days, weeks, and years after. It’s the ache in your chest when you reach for the phone to call them, the tears that come unannounced in the grocery store, the silence that echoes a little too loudly in the house.

Grief shows up after the loss. It’s the process of adjusting to life without someone who mattered deeply. And while it’s painful, it’s also natural and normal.  It's just love with nowhere to go.

Anticipatory Grief

Now anticipatory grief? That’s the grief we feel before the actual loss happens. It often shows up when a loved one has a terminal diagnosis, or when dementia slowly erases someone we love piece by piece. It’s the knowing. The watching. The losing, bit by bit.

Anticipatory grief is just as real, just as valid, and often even more complicated because the person you’re grieving is still here. You’re straddling two worlds; one where you’re present for someone who’s still alive, and another where your heart is already starting to mourn their absence.

It can feel like you’re living in a slow-motion goodbye.

Key Differences Between Grief and Anticipatory Grief

Let’s break it down:

Grief

• Happens after death or loss

• About adjusting to a new reality

• Focused on what is gone

• Can involve relief, shock, sadness, anger

• Often supported openly by others

Anticipatory Grief

• Happens before death or loss

• About fearing and imagining what the new reality will be

• Focused on what is going

• Can involve dread, anxiety, helplessness, sadness

• Often unseen or misunderstood by others

Why It Matters to Know the Difference

Recognizing anticipatory grief can be a huge relief, because so many caregivers and loved ones feel like they’re "already grieving" and then immediately feel guilty for it. But it’s not betrayal. It’s preparation.

You’re not giving up on the person. You’re reacting to the emotional weight of watching someone you love change, suffer, or decline. That’s not weakness. That’s love doing its complicated, messy thing.

And when death does finally come, those who’ve been steeped in anticipatory grief may find themselves grieving differently. Sometimes the sorrow is less sharp, because the heart has been slowly adjusting over time. Other times, it hits just as hard,or even harder, because you’ve been holding it together for so long.

There’s no “right” way to do this. There’s only your way.

How to Cope with Anticipatory Grief

Here are a few ideas that might help if you’re in the thick of it:

• Talk about it. With a therapist, a grief coach, a death doula (hi!), or a trusted friend. Name it. Naming grief doesn’t make it bigger, it makes it more bearable.

• Allow yourself to feel both/and. You can love someone fiercely and grieve their decline. You can laugh with them today and cry yourself to sleep tonight. That doesn’t make you disloyal, it makes you human.

• Seek support. Anticipatory grief is often lonely, because it’s invisible. Find others who get it, peer groups, online communities, or caregiver circles.

• Make meaning while you can. If it’s possible, have the conversations, share the stories, ask the questions. That’s not just preparation, it’s connection.
  
  

Grief after death is like standing in the wreckage, trying to figure out how to rebuild. Anticipatory grief is like knowing the storm is coming, and bracing yourself.  Sometimes for months, sometimes for years.

Both are real. Both are valid. And both deserve compassion.

If you’re navigating anticipatory grief, know this: you are not losing your mind. You are just someone who loves deeply and is already grieving what love will lose.

So take a breath. Be gentle with your heart. And remember, you don’t have to do this alone.

Your grief is yours, your feelings are valid, and grief doesn’t always have to suck.

Addressing Common Fears About Dying

Let’s just say it: thinking about dying is weirdly terrifying. Even if you’ve made peace with the idea in theory, the real, messy feelings around death can still sneak up and sucker-punch you in the gut. You're not alone. Most people carry a tangled ball of fears when it comes to death—and naming them is often the first step toward loosening their grip.

Fear #1: The Pain
A top contender in the fear olympics. “Will it hurt?” is a valid question. While we can't predict every detail, the good news is that modern medicine has come a long way. Hospice and palliative care teams are literal angels at managing pain. You don’t have to suffer. Planning ahead and advocating for comfort care can make a massive difference.

Don’t get me started on hospice myths.  Guys, they don’t come to kill grandma, I promise!! 

Fear #2: The Unknown
Ah yes, the ol’ “what happens next?” existential dread. I can remember 7 year old me trying desperately to sort this one out.  Whether you believe in heaven, reincarnation, or cosmic stardust, it’s okay not to know. But fear of the unknown doesn’t have to freeze you. Get curious instead!  Read, ask questions, have deep talks at inappropriate dinner parties.  (or attend a death cafe!!) The mystery isn’t going anywhere, but your fear might ease with familiarity.

Fear #3: Leaving People Behind
Worrying about loved ones is natural. We want to protect, fix, and stay connected. Here’s the truth: your people will grieve, and they will survive.  And life does continue on without you. What helps most? Conversations. Write the letter. Record a message. Say the mushy stuff now. Love doesn't end—it just shifts shape.

Fear #4: Losing Control
The idea of being dependent or voiceless at the end is a big one. That’s why advance directives and having a solid care team (and a death doula, ahem) are game-changers. When you plan ahead, you regain some control, and that’s powerful stuff.  (ahem.  Death doulas can help here too!)

Talking about death won’t summon it like Beetlejuice. It actually gives you and your people more peace. Fear shrinks when exposed to the light.

So go ahead. Peek under the bed. Death’s there, sure, but so is love, legacy, and a surprising amount of grace.

Want more real talk and resources on dying well? Come hang out with me! No judgment or creepy vibes, just compassionate truth.

How to Start Difficult Conversations About Death

(Without Making Everyone Want to Crawl Under the Table)

Let’s be real—talking about death is awkward.  I mean, not for me, but you know…..death doula. It’s like that scene in the Barbie movie when they’re all dancing and Barbie asks if anyone ever thinks about death. But avoiding the topic doesn’t make it go away (and talking about it does not make it happen I SWEAR!) it just leaves our loved ones guessing when it matters most. Whether you're trying to talk to your aging parents, your partner, or even your best friend, the conversation about death needs to happen. The good news? It doesn’t have to be all doom and gloom. In fact, it can be one of the most loving, clarifying, and even empowering discussions you'll ever have.

Here’s how to start the conversation—without totally killing the vibe:

1. Start with “I” Statements

Avoid making it about them and instead frame it from your own point of view. Something like:
"I've been thinking a lot about what I’d want at the end of my life, and it made me wonder what matters most to you." This opens the door gently and makes it clear you're not making assumptions or pushing an agenda.

2. Pick the Right Moment (Hint: Not at Thanksgiving Dinner)

Choose a quiet time when you’re not rushed or distracted. A walk, a car ride, or a relaxed coffee chat can create the right environment for honesty and vulnerability. This isn’t a conversation to squeeze in during commercial breaks.

3. Use a Conversation Starter

Sometimes all you need is a prompt to ease into it:

• “Have you ever thought about what kind of care you’d want if you got really sick?”

• “Do you have any thoughts on what you’d like your funeral to be like?”

• “If you die from eating too many nachos, should I keep that a secret?”

Not exactly cocktail party banter, but surprisingly effective.  Check out The Death Deck for some great inspiration!!

4. Be Ready to Listen, Not Lecture

Once you open the conversation, shut up and listen. People may have fears, beliefs, or preferences that surprise you. Your job isn’t to fix, change, or argue—it’s to understand.

5. Keep It Casual, Keep It Open

This isn’t a one-and-done convo. It’s the start of an ongoing dialogue. You don’t need to cover everything in one go. In fact, it’s better if you don’t. Let it evolve naturally, like the weirdest but most important group text thread of your life.

6. Share Resources

If people seem unsure or scared, offer tools to help. There are great books, websites, and checklists out there that make the process less intimidating. You could say, “There’s this planning guide I found really helpful—want to look at it together sometime?”

These are conversations I can help facilitate as well.  

Bottom line

Talking about death doesn’t bring it on. But not talking about it can leave people in the dark when you need clarity most. These conversations are a gift. They give us a chance to show love, to honor choices, and to face the inevitable with a little more grace—and maybe even a laugh or two.

Now go start that conversation. Yes, it's awkward. But not as much as dying without a plan.