Irish death doulas share insights on navigating life's end with love and care.

Last month, Oscar-winning actress Nicole Kidman publicly revealed she had trained as a death doula following the tragic loss of her mother, Janelle, in September 2024. Speaking at the University of San Francisco, Kidman explained that her grief journey uncovered a temperament suited to supporting others at life's end, fostering a desire to help people navigate loss with greater openness and care.

While a Hollywood star may have brought fresh attention to this role, death doulas—non-medical companions providing emotional, practical, and sometimes spiritual support before and after death—have long served communities in Ireland. From facilitating difficult family conversations to sitting vigil during final hours, their work is as much about living well as it is about dying well. Now, five Irish death doulas share in their own words what their work involves and what it has taught them about love, loss, and what truly matters.

Sarah Gardiner, 47, a celebrant and death doula from Co. Louth, describes her work as the opposite of morose. It is about listening, supporting, helping people find clarity and deeper connection, and encouraging them to live more intentionally. She notes that people often approach her after a diagnosis saying they want to get things in order but do not know how to talk to their families. Often, the dying person has accepted their fate, while their loved ones remain in denial. Support looks different for everyone; it might involve organizing a funeral or creating a legacy project, such as recording messages, writing letters, sharing recipes, or making playlists. Gardiner recalls a woman who made Christmas ornaments for each family member and a grandfather who left painted handprints on his grandchildren's T-shirts. Just like a birth plan, one can have a death plan involving music, lighting, and desired attendees. While exiting this world won't always go to plan, a death plan allows families to focus on being present rather than worrying about details. Gardiner runs a death café with Liza Clancy, a space with tea, biscuits, and open conversation where some are grieving, some are dying, and others are curious. It is not morbid but the most life-affirming space. She emphasizes that it is a real gift to leave clear instructions for family members. Being in their late 40s, Gardiner and her husband know what they want when the time comes, with instructions written in a folder in her office. She warns that avoiding the topic is not helpful and one should not wait for a crisis to address it.

Bernadette Kenny, 49, a bio-energy therapist, psychotherapist, and end-of-life doula from Galway, states her work can begin when someone receives a life-limiting diagnosis or in their final weeks. Her aim is to support an end of life that is peaceful, meaningful, and dignified. She hopes to bring dying at home back into communities, asserting that deathcare should not belong only to professionals but is part of all our lives. The more we talk about it, the less frightening it becomes. Kenny has written her own eulogy, examined worst-case and best-case scenarios for her own death, and participated in a living wake. She observes that very often the person who is dying has accepted their death, but their loved ones may still be in denial and need support. When working with families, everyone can be thinking differently, requiring tailored assistance to bridge those gaps.

Jessica Byrne, a 37-year-old social care assistant from south Dublin, redefines her role not just as a caregiver for autistic adults but as a death doula and somatic therapist who facilitates profound connection at life's end. She notes that preparation instills a tangible peace, allowing individuals to reclaim control and return to their authentic selves before death. Byrne empowers patients to curate their final environment, specifying preferences for music, lighting, companionship, and physical touch to ensure dignity and choice. She has witnessed how limited time catalyzes radical honesty during final family conversations, transforming them into spaces of deep presence. These moments often result in families reflecting that their last time together was the best they shared, despite the inherent sadness.

Byrne's perspective shifted dramatically after her own life was upended by the death of her father. Nursing him in his final moments, where he passed in her arms with the best possible care, nearly broke her family. She describes the subsequent grief as annihilating, feeling as though the ground vanished beneath her. This trauma led to a diagnosis of AuDHD, as she could no longer mask her symptoms. Now, she teaches others to become comfortable with death, revealing how this acceptance highlights the preciousness of the present moment and the depth of human love. She emphasizes that facing mortality reveals human strength and the inseparable nature of joy and sadness. Furthermore, she advocates for voluntary assisted dying, a stance formed after witnessing her father suffer unnecessarily without a cure. She concludes that while life's worries are often overwhelming, existence itself is simple, rooted in the fundamental importance of loving and being loved.

Liza Clancy, a 50-year-old death doula, funeral celebrant, and director from Drogheda, turned her professional focus to end-of-life care following the sudden death of her husband, Kevin, in February 2020. Kevin was diagnosed with bowel cancer and given a three-year prognosis, yet he died within five weeks. This tragic timeline forced Clancy to confront the reality that tomorrow is not guaranteed. She officiated her husband's funeral herself because existing options failed to meet their needs, choosing to capture his life and legacy personally at the crematorium.

Clancy highlights that a primary fear for the dying is what happens after they are gone. She argues that knowing concrete plans exist or having a dedicated supporter like herself can offer immense comfort. To mitigate the paralysis of grief and uncertainty, she encourages everyone to plan their own funerals and make detailed arrangements, such as organizing letters, digital memory books, recorded stories, and messages for their families. By preparing these assets in advance, individuals ensure their wishes are clear, allowing loved ones to navigate the immediate aftermath without the burden of decision-making when they are most vulnerable.

Receiving a letter from a mother who passed six months ago would be an extraordinary gift, yet death remains a solitary journey. Even when surrounded by others, an individual dies alone. Many pass away in isolation to spare their families the trauma of witnessing the end, yet those who miss the moment often grapple with misplaced guilt. Grief and guilt frequently coexist, a dynamic that should be reconsidered. Observing a death is simultaneously beautiful and traumatic; it is possible to wish for someone's final breath to arrive quickly while simultaneously fearing the loss and refusing to let them go. It is startling that society prepares meticulously for every event except the most significant one: our own mortality. While old Irish superstitions warn that speaking of death invites it into the home, the reality is that neither death nor grief are contagious. We must move beyond pitying gestures and avoidance, such as crossing the street, and instead engage in open conversations about navigating this universal experience together.

Liam McCarthy, a 62-year-old celebrant, registered solemniser, and death doula based in Cork, arrived at this work through his role as a celebrant. He realized he had been holding space for people at the end of life for years without explicitly labeling it as such. Historically, Ireland held a deep respect for the dying and the dead as an integral part of life. Communities relied on local helpers, often women known as "handywomen," who arrived upon a death to prepare and dress the deceased. While it is less common for a man to serve as a doula, the essential traits of talking and holding space are traditionally associated with religious ministers. McCarthy notes that while he is not religious, he identifies as a spiritual person.

Following a diagnosis, individuals often face anticipatory grief, worrying about missed milestones and the impact on their loved ones. The bereaved face multiple layers of loss: the burden of caregiving, the actual death, and the subsequent emptiness. Even when a death is expected, the moment the change occurs remains staggering. Traditionally, caring for the dead was a core component of community life in Ireland, exemplified by the home wake. However, society has drifted away from this visceral practice, leaving many without the vocabulary or comfort to discuss death. The core lessons remain constant: no one regrets working more; the essence of life is love, time, and connection. Death serves as the bookend to our existence, and ignoring it offers no benefit. Being prepared for one's own death can significantly ease the burden of supporting others through theirs.