Someone you love has died. The house is loud with phone calls and very quiet at the same time. There are countless casseroles on the counter. (I did not mean to make that alliterative.) Somewhere in the middle of all of it there's a blank page, and a question: how do I hold an entire life in a few minutes' worth of words?
If that's where you're sitting, come along with me, because in this episode we write a eulogy together. Maybe you said yes to speaking at a service before you had any idea what you'd say, or maybe you suspect someday you'll be asked. Either way, I walk you through it one step at a time.
A eulogy is not a resume
Here's the first thing I want you to know. A eulogy is not a resume. (Neither is an obituary, but that's a different podcast.) It's not a list of dates and job titles rattled off a page. A eulogy is the story of a person. It's your chance to stand in front of everyone who loved them and say out loud: here is who they were, here's what they leave with us, and here's how we will carry them for as long as we live.
You don't have to be a writer to do this. You do have to be honest.
Start with a simple life frame
You don't have to begin with a blinking cursor. Before you reach for anything polished, lay down the simple facts of a life as a kind of frame. Once the frame is there, everything else fills in.
Jot down what you can. When and where they were born, and into what kind of family. The people who raised them and the ones they grew up beside. The work they did, whatever shape it took. The people they loved, their children by birth or by choosing, and what they cared about. Their spiritual beliefs, if they held them. The day their heart stopped beating, and who was there. Leave the blanks blank. You'll fill some in later, some robustly, and some you'll leave open. That's all good.
Gather stories from other people who loved them
You don't have to carry this all by yourself. The eulogy comes from your voice and your relationship, and that's what makes it yours. But it gets so much richer when you let other people pour into it, especially the ones who saw a side of your person most people didn't. The old friend, the coworker, the neighbor.
I didn't know, for example, that at the job where my dad met my mom, he was a pit boss in Tahoe in the sixties, and he wore white pants to work. White pants! My dad is a lifelong horseman and cowboy. I so wish there was a picture, because seeing him dressed any other way would be a real kick. That story brings texture to who my dad is.
If you have the energy, call people and ask small, open-ended questions, like what they remember most. If the phone feels like too much, a short text or email does the same work: "I've been asked to speak at their service, and I want to gather memories from people who loved them. If you feel up to it, would you send me a story, a moment, or just a few words about what they meant to you?" You don't have to use every story that comes back. Read them all anyway. Those little snippets of someone you love, arriving while you grieve, are their own kind of medicine.
Show who they were with one small moment
The facts tell us what happened. The next layer is where the whole thing comes alive. Here's an illustration. We could say Barbara taught third grade for thirty years. True, but it slides right past us. Now listen to this instead: she kept a drawer in her classroom full of spare mittens, plain ones from a bin at the discount store. Any kid who came in with cold red hands could take a pair. No questions, no fuss. The mittens were just there, year after year, the way she was there.
Can you see her? Can you feel the warm mittens on those cold little hands? When you write, go looking for that drawer of mittens, and tell us that story.
Find the thread, and keep the small, strange, true details
Once your facts and stories are spread out in front of you, step back and look for a thread. What did this person keep doing, in a hundred different ways, across their whole life? Were they the one who made room for everybody? The one who fixed what was broken, or told the truth even when it cost them, or made a hard day lighter just by walking in? You don't have to name it. Hold that thread while you write, and the words turn from a timeline into a portrait.
My favorite part is the small, strange, true things. The way they hummed the wrong words to every song on purpose. The peppermints in the coat pocket. The drawer full of bread bag clips they swore they'd use someday. Falling asleep ten minutes into every movie and insisting they'd seen the whole thing. Please don't leave those out. They aren't small. They're the texture of the person, and they make people laugh in the middle of crying. Grief and laughter can sit right next to each other in the same gathering. We don't have to choose.
How to end a eulogy well
A good ending gathers everything up and gives the grief somewhere to go. You might say what you'll miss most, or name what they taught you and how you plan to keep living it. You might hand people something simple to carry out the door: a line from a beloved song, a blessing, or a few plain words of your own. Something like, "If they taught us anything, it was to pay attention, to really see the person in front of you. So today, in their honor, let's do that. Let's hold each other a little longer. Let's tell the stories. That's how we keep them with us."
Trust that it will land. Not because every word is perfect, but because it's honest and you mean it. Honesty carries a room further than any polished phrase.
Be gentle with yourself: writing a eulogy is grief work
Writing a eulogy is sacred work, and it's also grief work. Some of it will pour right out of you, and some of it will stop you cold. Both are part of the work. Go slowly, in pieces if you need to. It's a good idea to have a trusted person standing close on the day, someone who can step in and keep reading if your voice gives out. If that happens, that's love showing up with a second pair of hands.
Presence matters more than perfection. You don't have to capture everything about them. You only have to tell us the truth of someone you loved. In this age of AI there are plenty of tools out there, but I challenge you to make this piece of writing personal and your own. If you need help, there are death doulas who specialize in legacy work and can help with the heavy lift.
One more thing: a eulogy doesn't have to wait until after someone dies. It can be written while your person is ill. I've already started one that I know I'll be responsible for. It's been forming over a period of months, I'm taking great care with it, and it's helping me work through my anticipatory grief. Doing this work in bits and pieces builds a strong foundation to carry the grief forward.
In this episode
- 00:00 Facing the blank page
- 01:33 What a eulogy is
- 02:17 Build the life frame
- 03:39 Gather stories together
- 06:15 Moments that show character
- 07:16 Find the thread
- 07:57 Small, strange, true details
- 08:54 How to end it well
- 10:04 Grief work, not perfection
- 11:16 Help and resources
- 12:32 Closing
Caring for someone near the end? You don't have to figure out the last days alone. Book a Guided Care Planning Call and we'll talk through what's ahead.
Feeling the pull to do this work? Pay attention to that. I teach it at Compass Doula Academy.
Listen: Spotify · Apple Podcasts · 13 minutes
If there's anything else you're dying to ask, let me know: christy@christybraun.com
