Lately, I’ve been reflecting on the quiet work I do each week as a hospice volunteer. Most often, I bake cookies. Sometimes, I sit with someone who is unresponsive—someone nearing the edge of life. And more often than not, I find myself more at ease in the presence of those who no longer speak than those who do. It’s not because I don’t care, but because I find words difficult in such sacred moments. I’m not good at small talk, and I don’t always know how to offer the kind of comfort people seem to expect.

And yet, something in me is drawn to these spaces. Perhaps because I haven’t experienced a deep, devastating loss that left me undone. When my mother passed, I felt more relief than grief. She had suffered, and her passing felt like a merciful end to that suffering. I hold a belief that death is not an ending but a transition—something natural, even beautiful. I have no fear of it. In fact, I look forward to it as a return to the source.

I’ve often wondered if becoming a death doula would allow me to serve in a deeper way. But the training is intensive and expensive, and I’m 60 and retired. I’m not seeking a new career; I’m seeking a deeper path of meaning—a way to support the dying that feels more organic, less structured, and aligned with the quieter gifts I bring.

Is there a way to hold space for the dying that doesn’t require certification, but calls on deep listening, gentle presence, and reverence?

What I’ve come to realize is that I don’t need a title to be a sacred presence. The comfort of sitting quietly with someone, offering warmth without words, is its own kind of ministry. There are programs and resources out there that support this quieter, more contemplative way of being with the dying—volunteer-based, community-rooted, and heart-centered. Some focus on bedside singing, others on sacred silence. Some simply teach you how to sit with grace and not turn away.

This feels more like my path: not to do more, but to be more fully present. To become more comfortable with my own mortality as I accompany others toward theirs. To serve the dying not as a professional, but as a fellow traveler walking each other home.

So I continue to explore, gently. I remain curious. And I listen—to myself, to those I sit with, and to the silence between.

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Resources & References:

1. Felber, Henry Fersko-Weiss. Caring for the Dying: The Doula Approach to a Meaningful Death. Conari Press, 2017.

2. National Home Funeral Alliance. “Community Deathcare Education and Resources.” https://www.homefuneralalliance.org