As a Humanist celebrant, I’ve spent many years helping families say goodbye to people they love. I’ve listened to their stories, shared their memories, often laughed with them, and sometimes cried with them too.

But this year, I found myself on the other side of the conversation. In April, my mum died.

No matter how many funerals you’ve conducted, how many grieving families you’ve supported or how much you think you understand about death, nothing quite prepares you for losing your own mum, and yet, looking back, I realise that something we did together during the final year of her life made an enormous difference, both to our relationship and to how I was able to support her at the end- We talked about her funeral.

And, perhaps surprisingly, those conversations became some of the most valuable we ever had.

Planning Mum’s Funeral Together

When I first became a Humanist Funeral celebrant, Mum asked whether I would conduct her funeral when the time came. I told her that I would if I could. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. Conducting the funeral of someone you love is very different from supporting another family through their bereavement. But I also knew how important it was to her.

During the last couple of years of her life, Mum was bedbound. Her world had become much smaller, and she was increasingly dependent on others.

Last year, she asked whether we could start putting her funeral ceremony together, so we did, not in one solemn, emotionally exhausting conversation, but gradually, over a series of long chats.

We talked about:

• her childhood, her family, the people who had mattered to her and the experiences that had shaped her life.

• the things she was proud of, the things she remembered fondly and the things she wanted people to know.

And, of course, we talked about what she wanted from her funeral.

I’ve always believed that a good funeral ceremony should tell the story of the person who has died, rather than simply list the events of their life. It’s about capturing their personality, their relationships, their values and all those little details that made them who they were.

But working on Mum’s ceremony taught me something else, even when you think you know someone incredibly well, there can still be so much to discover.

I learnt things about my mum that I hadn’t known before. We revisited memories, explored different parts of her life, and sometimes found ourselves talking about things we’d never really discussed.

I wrote the ceremony, read it aloud to her and waited for her verdict. There were revisions, quite a few revisions, in fact! We went backwards and forwards, changing words, adding memories, taking things out and making sure everything sounded right.

I read it aloud several times before she finally pronounced herself satisfied, and that was that.

Mum had approved her own funeral.

It sounds rather extraordinary when I put it like that, but the whole experience was surprisingly positive. Rather than dwelling on her approaching death, we were celebrating her life while she was still here to enjoy the memories.

She had the opportunity to tell her story in her own words, and I had the privilege of listening.

Why Talking About Death Matters

I think one of the reasons we avoid conversations about death is that we’re frightened of what they might bring. We don’t want to upset someone we love. We don’t want them to think we’ve given up hope.

We worry that talking about dying somehow makes it more real, but death is part of life, whether we talk about it or not and avoiding the subject doesn’t necessarily protect anyone.

For Mum and me, those conversations created opportunities for honesty, laughter, reflection and, occasionally, difficult questions.

They allowed us to talk about what mattered to her, not just in relation to her funeral, but about her life and how she wanted to be cared for as it drew towards its end, at the time, I don’t think I fully appreciated just how important that would become.

Understanding Mum’s End-of-Life Wishes

Mum died in April, following a difficult stay in hospital and a couple of final nights in our local hospice.

Towards the end, there was discussion about further medical treatment it would have been invasive and painful, and it wasn’t going to cure her. Mum had really had enough.

As her next of kin, I was involved in discussions about moving to palliative care, focusing on keeping her comfortable rather than pursuing further treatment.

It was an enormously difficult situation, even when you know someone is approaching the end of their life, accepting that there is no longer anything to be gained from further medical intervention can be heartbreaking.

But I had something that made those conversations easier I knew what Mum wanted, not because I was guessing. Not because I thought I knew best, but because we’d talked about it.

Those conversations gave me the confidence to support a plan of care that respected her wishes, with the medical team.

I wasn’t left wondering whether I was doing the right thing, or whether she would have wanted something different. I knew, and that knowledge was an extraordinary gift.

As a Humanist, I believe deeply in the importance of compassion, dignity, and individual choice. I believe people should be listened to and, wherever possible, involved in decisions about their own lives and care.

That doesn’t mean the decisions are easy. It certainly doesn’t mean that choosing comfort-focused care makes losing someone any less painful, but there can come a point when further treatment offers little benefit and may simply add to someone’s suffering.

For Mum, what mattered was being comfortable, being cared for and being treated with dignity and knowing that helped me enormously.

It also reinforced something I believe very strongly: conversations about end-of-life wishes shouldn’t be left until we’re standing in a hospital corridor, exhausted, frightened and trying to make sense of complicated medical information.

We need to have them while there’s still time.

The Practical Side of Arranging a Funeral

Given my experience as a Funeral Celebrant, I had thought I would know what to do, but there seemed to be an endless amount of paperwork, arrangements and what I’ve come to think of as death admin.

All those things that have to be dealt with when you’re grieving and would really rather not be dealing with anything at all.

Thankfully, my sister was an absolute tower of strength throughout. I don’t know how I would have managed without her.

Both she and Mum’s partner took comfort from knowing that Mum had been involved in planning her own funeral. There were no difficult discussions about what she might have wanted or whether we were making the right choices. We knew because she’d told us.

Mum had also arranged a prepaid funeral plan, which covered most of the costs. Another practical decision that made things easier for us at an already difficult time and so we set about creating a funeral that was, in every sense, uniquely hers.

Creating a Personal Humanist Funeral Ceremony

We chose to hold the ceremony in a deconsecrated chapel, a lovely setting for the celebration of Mum’s life, and yes, I conducted the ceremony myself.

I’d promised her all those years earlier that I would, if I could, and I wanted to honour that promise.

But I was also realistic. I was her daughter, not simply the celebrant conducting a funeral, and I had no idea how I would feel when the moment arrived, so another celebrant was there, ready to step in if I became too overwhelmed to continue.

Just knowing that someone was there to take over if necessary was an enormous reassurance.

Choosing a Personal Goodbye

We didn’t want elaborate floral tributes, Mum always said they were a waste of money!

Instead, we invited family and friends to bring wildflowers and place them on Mum’s coffin. There was even the odd ladybird and spider amongst them, I think Mum would have liked that.

It was simple, natural, personal, and rather lovely and it felt right.

We also decided to do something a little different at the end of the ceremony, rather than having the coffin taken away while everyone watched, or following it to the crematorium, we invited everyone to stay with us for the wake.

Mum’s coffin remained in place while we spent time together, talking, remembering, sharing stories, and celebrating her life.

Later, she was taken to a rural crematorium, we didn’t go with her. That was a conscious choice.

We wanted our goodbye to be the ceremony we’d created, surrounded by the people who loved her, rather than a final journey to the crematorium.

It might not have been the way everyone would choose to arrange a funeral, but it was right for us.

And that’s something I feel even more strongly about now than I did before, there is no single right way to say goodbye.

There Is No Single Right Way to Say Goodbye

As a Humanist celebrant, I’ve always encouraged families to think beyond what is traditionally expected at a funeral.

You don’t have to:

• choose particular flowers, music, or readings simply because they’re customary.

• follow a coffin out of the chapel or attend the crematorium if that isn’t what you want.

There are choices, and those choices can make an enormous difference to how a funeral feels.

Mum’s funeral wasn’t about following convention. It was about reflecting her personality, her wishes and the life she’d lived.

There was sadness, of course there was. We were saying goodbye to someone we loved, but there was also warmth, affection, shared memories, and the comfort of knowing we’d done what she wanted, and I think that matters enormously.

A funeral cannot take away grief. No ceremony, however beautiful or personal, can do that, but it can give us a meaningful way to acknowledge a life, share our love, and begin to come to terms with a loss.

For me, being able to conduct Mum’s funeral was both one of the hardest things I’ve ever done and an extraordinary privilege.

I was proud that I’d kept my promise to her and I was grateful that she’d trusted me with her story.

The Gift of Having Difficult Conversations

When Mum first suggested writing her funeral together, I thought I was doing something for her. I was helping her plan the goodbye she wanted, but looking back, I realise she was giving me something too, She gave me her stories and the opportunity to understand her better.

She gave me the reassurance of knowing that, when the time came, I could honour her wishes, and she gave us both permission to talk openly about something that so many families find difficult.

Those conversations didn’t take away the sadness of losing her, but they did take away some of the uncertainty and they left me with memories that I will always treasure.

One of the things I often say to families is that a funeral should reflect the person whose life we’re remembering, but how much easier is that when we’ve actually asked them what they would like?

Not everyone will want to plan their own funeral in detail, and that’s absolutely fine. Some people will have strong opinions about music, readings and what should happen. Others may simply want to reassure their family that they can make those choices for themselves.

The important thing is to start the conversation, and perhaps it shouldn’t stop at funerals.

We can talk about:

• the kind of care we would want if we became seriously ill

• what matters most to us

• who we’d want involved in decisions

• what dignity means to us personally.

Where appropriate, those wishes can also be recorded formally so that healthcare professionals and the people closest to us understand them.

These aren’t necessarily gloomy conversations. They can be conversations about love, relationships, memories, values and what makes a life meaningful.

They can even be funny, I know ours sometimes were, and they can bring us closer together.

Remembering Mum on Her 90th Birthday

Mum would have turned 90 in August, before she died, we’d talked about what she wanted us to do with her ashes, and she’d made her wishes clear.

So, on what would have been her 90th birthday, we planted a cherry tree in her memory and scattered her ashes around it and then we raised a glass to her with the finest champagne (her favourite).

There were tears, of course. How could there not be? But there was laughter too, we remembered her, talked about her, and celebrated the fact that she’d been part of our lives for so long.

It wasn’t a sombre occasion. It was another opportunity to honour Mum in a way that felt right for her and for us.

There’s something rather comforting about knowing that the cherry tree will grow and change with the seasons. In time, it will blossom, and each year those flowers will be another reminder of her.

Not because I believe Mum is somehow living on in the tree, but because memories, love, and the influence someone has had on our lives don’t simply disappear when they die.

As a Humanist, I don’t believe we need the promise of another life to find meaning in this one. The relationships we build, the kindness we share and the memories we leave behind are all part of the legacy of having lived and Mum lived life to the full.

Living With Grief, One Day at a Time

It’s now six months since Mum died. Grief is an odd thing, isn’t it?

It doesn’t follow a timetable, there are days when I’m absolutely fine, and others when something quite unexpected brings the sadness rushing back.

Sometimes I find myself laughing at a memory, only to realise a moment later just how much I miss her, and I’ve come to understand that that’s all right.

Grief is intensely personal. There isn’t a correct way to experience it, and there isn’t a deadline by which we should have somehow ‘got over’ losing someone we love.

I don’t think we ever really get over it. Perhaps we simply learn to live with the loss, allowing the memories and the love to sit alongside the sadness, six months on, I’m getting there, one day at a time.

Why These Conversations Are Worth Having

And if sharing my experience encourages even one person to have those conversations they’ve been putting off, to ask a parent about their life, or to talk openly about what they would want at the end of it, then I’m glad I’ve told Mum’s story because, looking back, those conversations weren’t really about death at all.

They were about life, love and understanding each other while we still had the chance and I wouldn’t have missed them for the world.

First Fig by Edna St. Vincent Millay

My candle burns at both ends;

It will not last the night;

But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—

It gives a lovely light!