Not an Obituary: Why I Am Choosing to Be a Death Doula
For years, my writing has circled a central, pulsing truth: how we deal with an ending defines the story of what was lived. It defines the safety of those left behind. It can either honor a life or perpetuate a cycle of trauma.
I’ve written about the frantic, isolating terror of a threat to my own safety, and the subsequent emotional violence of not being believed—the way a single night can become a “six-minute ordeal” you have to replay for disinterested police, for indifferent housemates, for yourself, trying to stitch your sense of security back together. I’ve asked the questions that burn in the aftermath: Why do we always have to protect the feelings of the people that hurt us? Will we ever consider me in any of this?
I’ve also written about the sacred duty of “Honoring the Black Dead,” of the profound difference between showcasing Black suffering and celebrating Black life. I believe, deeply, that “our sunset, no matter in what circumstance, should not be clouded out by the brutality of a system many of us spent our entire lives battling.” I’ve witnessed the power of a Black funeral, which “can be so jovial and full of light - calling on a celebration of life.”
And I’ve sat with the universal, gut-wrenching “Why?” that echoes in a quiet church. Why death? Why now? Why them?
It is from the nexus of these experiences—the personal violation, the cultural reverence, the existential questioning—that my calling has crystallized. I am choosing to become a death doula because the world of endings is desperately in need of what I offer: a practice centered on radical inclusion, unflinching wellness, and the retention of one’s own voice, even at the threshold.
Why This? Why Now?
Our culture treats death like an uninvited guest, a failure, a medical event to be managed quietly. But death is not the failure; the failure is in how we are often left to face it—unprepared, isolated, and silenced. I know what it feels like to be isolated in your own trauma, to have your story contested, to be told your perception of a threatening moment is invalid. I will not let people face their final moments, or their loved ones face the aftermath, with that same profound loneliness.
Many systems are not built for the nuanced, human-centered care that dying requires. It’s built for efficiency. My role is to be the person who says, “I believe you,” and walks you to your door, ensuring you don’t have to face the dark porch alone.
Why I Am the Best Person for This Job
I am not approaching this work from a detached clinical interest. I am coming from a place of lived experience with crisis, injustice, and the complex, messy work of reclaiming narrative control.
Centering Inclusion is Non-Negotiable. My practice is built on the understanding that systems are not designed for everyone. I’ve written about the specific ways Black death has been weaponized and sensationalized. I honor the dead by first honoring their life, their culture, their specific wishes. This means creating a space that is not only “welcoming” but actively affirming for BIPOC, LGBTQ+, and other marginalized individuals—communities whose end-of-life wishes are too often overlooked or overridden. The question, “Would this even be an issue if I was white?” has taught me to be critically aware of the power dynamics at play in every room, especially a sickroom.
Wellness Means Wholeness. Wellness isn’t just about pain management; it’s about emotional and spiritual integrity. It’s about allowing for rage, and sadness, and fear—the same storm of emotions I felt collapsing on my floor—without judgment. It’s about making pancakes you don’t even like because you need a ritual to hold onto. I understand that wellness sometimes looks like demanding that someone lock the damn door, and other times it looks like a silent walk by the river. For the dying and their families, I provide a container for all of it, helping to craft rituals that feel authentic, not prescribed.
Retaining Your Voice is the Ultimate Act of Honor. The most devastating part of my own experience was being told the words I heard were not said. At the end of life, agency can be taken piece by piece and the voice is often the last thing to go. My primary role is to amplify that voice. To ensure that a person’s wishes—for their care, for their legacy, for their body—are not just heard but fiercely advocated for. I help people write the story of their ending on their own terms, so their obituary isn’t just a list of survivors and a misspelled word, but a true reflection of a life lived.
I have vowed to make changes. To be taken seriously. This work is the fulfillment of that vow.
I cannot answer the cosmic “Why?” of death. But I can answer the “why” of my own life. I am here to sit in the aisle with you, not with easy answers, but with a steadfast presence. To help you focus on the laughter, the sacrifices, the kinship—everything that shone—before we ever have to talk about the sunset.
Because the goal is not to avoid the ordeal, but to be supported through it. To be believed. To have your story honored. And to ensure that, in the end, you are met with concern, not inconvenience; with validation, not dismissal. You are the author. I am just the dedicated scribe, ensuring your final words are your own.
