Why I Became a Death Doula

Before the practical side of funeral work, before becoming a death doula, before I understood there was even language for this kind of care, there was simply a feeling I carried from childhood. I remember being around twelve years old, visiting my great grandmother in her nursing home.

It was a large place, and every time we walked through those hallways to reach her room, I would pass door after door and wonder about the people inside.

Who were they before this place?

What had they seen?

What had they survived?

Who had they loved?

My young heart ached for them. I used to daydream about sitting beside them, brushing their hair, massaging their hands, listening to their stories. Anything that might help them feel less alone. Less forgotten. Like their lives still mattered deeply.

Even then, something in me understood that every person carries knowledge, history, and meaning that does not disappear simply because they are nearing the end of life. I still feel that same way now.

My great grandmother was nearing one hundred, so her death was expected in the way very elderly deaths often are. Some people receive that kind of warning. Others do not.

Sometimes death approaches slowly, giving families time to prepare emotionally, practically, spiritually. Other times it arrives suddenly, without permission or closure. I have experienced both. When my own father died unexpectedly at sixty-three, it changed something in me.

I remember thinking how unfair it felt that he would never hear me play The Beatles’ “When I’m Sixty-Four” for him on his sixty-fourth birthday. Such a small thing, perhaps. But grief is often made of small things. Tiny futures that quietly disappear. His death deepened my understanding of how important closure can be.

Not perfect closure. I’m not sure that exists. But the chance to say what matters. To soften what can still be softened. To feel a little more at peace before someone leaves, or after they are gone.

I think that desire also came from growing up surrounded by death in quieter, more ordinary ways. I come from a large family and a small town. Funerals were simply part of life. Some of my earliest memories involve them. Not in a frightening way. Just in a human way. Death was something that happened within community.

People showed up.

Food appeared.

Stories were told.

Grief was witnessed together.

Looking back now, I can see how naturally those experiences shaped me. That is what eventually drew me toward becoming a death doula. Not a fascination with death itself, but a deep care for people moving through life-altering transitions.

Every person approaches death differently.

Every family grieves differently.

Every relationship carries its own unfinished threads.

And those threads matter.

Sometimes people need practical guidance.

Sometimes emotional support.

Sometimes permission to say the difficult thing aloud.

Sometimes they simply need someone willing to sit beside them without rushing the moment.

At Cullen Funerals, this is the heart of the work for me. Helping people find whatever peace is still available to them. Helping families feel less alone. Helping create space for honesty, care, and gentleness during some of life’s hardest moments.

I often think about those nursing home hallways now. About the younger version of me wondering about the lives behind those doors. I didn’t realise then that those moments were quietly shaping my future. But perhaps some callings begin that way.

Not all at once.

Not loudly.

Just as a small ache in the heart that keeps returning, asking us to pay attention.

And perhaps that is what this work has always been for me:

Paying attention.

To people.

To grief.

To love.

To the loose ends that still long to be gently tied.

Because every life deserves acknowledgment.

And every person deserves to feel that their story mattered.