<h3>From Bright Eyes to Gentle Goodbyes</h3><p>My journey to becoming a Death Doula began long before I knew such a role existed. As a child, I was deeply moved by the film <i>Watership Down</i> and its haunting theme song, “Bright Eyes.” The story’s honest portrayal of death and dying, tender yet unflinching, sparked something inside me. It invited me to see mortality not as something to fear, but as a natural part of life’s cycle. Even then, I sensed that death wasn’t an ending to be hidden away. It was part of a much bigger story.</p><p>This curiosity grew as I watched my family navigate the deaths of my grandparents and other loved ones. I witnessed grief up close. The quiet strength, the rituals, the unspoken emotions. I saw how differently each person coped. Each experience shaped my understanding of death in its own way. There was love in the tears, connection in the silence, and somehow, even amidst the sadness, a strange kind of peace. These moments taught me that death does not happen to an individual alone. It ripples outward, touching families, communities, and traditions.</p><p>The Catholic faith I was raised in also influenced my view of death. The rituals of prayers, vigils, and funerals offered comfort and a sense of continuity between the living and the dead. But as I grew older, I began to question my faith and seek a more personal understanding of what it means to die. And to live fully while we can. These questions would later guide my work.</p><h3>Volunteering at Hospice: A Turning Point</h3><p>As an adult, my path became clearer when I began volunteering at my local hospice. There, I met extraordinary people living with life-limiting illnesses. Sitting with them, hearing their stories, sharing laughter and tears, and witnessing their courage as they approached the end of life changed me profoundly. It was a huge honour. These encounters were humbling and deeply life-affirming. I began to understand the power of presence. Simply being with someone as they face death can be one of the greatest gifts you can offer.</p><h3>Training as a Death Doula</h3><p>Wanting to deepen my understanding, I enrolled in a Sacred Circle Death Doula course. This transformative experience required me to confront my own beliefs about death and dying. I wrote my own eulogy and participated in a living wake. These practices were both unsettling and liberating. They helped me see death not as a distant event, but as an integral part of my own life story. These experiences stripped away layers of fear and illusion. They reminded me that thinking about death isn’t morbid. It is a way of learning how to live with more truth, gratitude, and openness.</p><h3>Holding Space for Grief and End-of-Life Conversations</h3><p>Today, I find myself speaking with people -family, friends, clients, and even strangers. We talk about their experiences of illness, grief, and death. These conversations are not dark or depressing. They are profoundly human and freeing. People long to share their fears, their memories, and their hopes about what might lie beyond it all. My role as a Death Doula is to hold space for these stories. I walk alongside others as they navigate the most intimate threshold of existence. These moments remind me why I do this work.</p><h3>A Life’s Purpose Rooted in Compassion</h3><p>Being a Death Doula feels less like a career and more like my life’s purpose. It honours the full cycle of life. From those first childhood glimpses of death through the lens of a story and a song, to the real and raw experiences of walking beside others at life’s end, my journey has been about one simple truth. Death is not separate from life. It is part of it. And when we face it with compassion, we open ourselves to a deeper kind of love.</p>

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My Path to Becoming a Death Doula

<h3>Death as a Profound Teacher</h3><p>Sitting with death has been one of the most profound teachers of my life. Over the years, I’ve sat in quiet rooms, holding hands, listening to final breaths. I’ve watched as bodies grew frail while spirits sometimes grew brighter. Each time, death has stripped away my illusions about control, time, and permanence. It has revealed, again and again, that life is not measured by its length, but by its depth. By the love we give, the presence we offer, and the courage we find in letting go.</p><h3>Breaking the Silence Around Death</h3><p>Talking about death used to feel taboo, as if naming it would summon it closer. But I’ve learned that avoiding death only feeds fear. When we speak of it openly, when we say, “yes, one day I too will die,” something remarkable happens. The fear softens. The weight of the unknown becomes lighter. Death stops being a dark figure lurking in the shadows and becomes a wise companion reminding us to live fully while we can.</p><h3>Making Peace with Mortality</h3><p>I believe I am not afraid to die. That doesn’t mean I welcome it before its time, but rather that I’ve made peace with its inevitability. I don’t want to be in pain or to suffer. I don’t think anyone does. I would like my death, when it comes, to be gentle, to be met with love and dignity. What I fear is leaving things unsaid or leaving behind a mess of unfinished goodbyes. So, I try to live now in a way that feels whole. I talk to the people I love. I write things down. I forgive, even when it’s hard.</p><p>We will all have our turn. Being prepared emotionally, spiritually, and practically is an act of love for ourselves and those we leave behind. It is a way of saying, “I’ve thought about this, and I want to make it easier for you.” Preparation is not morbid. It is compassionate. Being prepared is not just about wills or medical directives. It is about living honestly so that when death does come, it finds me at peace.</p><h3>Seeing the Whole Person</h3><p>When I sit with someone who is dying, I look beyond the frailty of their body, beyond the tubes and the medical charts. I want to know who they were. The person who sang as a child, who had a first love, who danced, who worried, who loved fiercely, who sometimes failed and tried again, who carried secret pains. People are so much more than the day they die. The end is just one moment in a vast landscape of being. To know someone’s story is to honour their whole life. Not just the decline, but the beauty that came before it.</p><h3>What Really Matters in the End</h3><p>In those final moments, what matters is rarely the things we spend our lives chasing. No one has ever spoken of missed promotions or bank accounts in their last days. Instead, they speak of love — given, received, and lost. They speak of regrets, but also gratitude and forgiveness. They want to know they mattered. That their lives left an imprint on someone’s heart. They speak of peace. Death, in its quiet way, reminds us that love is what endures.</p><h3>Living with Tenderness and Presence</h3><p>Sitting with death has made me more tender with life. I pause longer to feel sunlight on my face. I hug people more tightly. I listen more closely to people’s stories. I forgive faster. I laugh louder. The awareness of mortality has sharpened my appreciation for the ordinary miracles that fill each day and shown me what matters.</p><h3>The Greatest Lesson</h3><p>I know my time will come, just as it comes for everyone. I can’t control how or when, but I can control how I live now — with presence, with courage, with love. Death is my teacher, and its greatest lesson has been this: life is precious not because it lasts forever, but because it doesn’t.</p>

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What I’ve Learned About Life from Sitting with Death

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My Path to Becoming a Death Doula

What I’ve Learned About Life from Sitting with Death

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