My apologies if this is the first time you are finding out about this.

We know this. So, if the end is guaranteed, what actually matters?

While I am still in the early stages of building my death doula practice, I have met and sat with people who have terminal illnesses, the elderly, and those who have experienced loss around them. And I have to tell you, nothing puts life into perspective like having these conversations regularly. Speaking with people about what they enjoyed most, their regrets, their wishes, hopes, and dreams - both achieved and the things that they never got around to doing.

At the end of life, clarity cuts across age, gender, and background, and the same three themes tend to surface when people reflect on what really mattered.

1: They wish they had worked less and been more present.
Cliche, I know, however, there are many conversations on folks wishing they had spent less time at their desks, sitting in traffic to a job they hated, not pursuing a career they wanted to invest in, rather than what society deemed acceptable. While work is a mandatory part of life, you realize that it takes more than it gives in the end. Work to live, not live to work.

2: They wish they had spent more time with the people they loved, doing the things they loved.
Sure, some people have bucket lists to travel the world, but it’s the small moments we often forget. Things like picking up the phone to call a friend you’ve been thinking about, sharing a meal, and taking your dog out for a walk on a sunny day. Ordinary, quiet moments that we take for granted until one day they’re not there.

3: They wish they had taken better care of themselves, mentally and physically.
You know what they say, youth is wasted on the youth. Like Mary Schmich shares in the poem Wear Sunscreen, “you don’t fully understand the power and beauty of your youth until it’s gone—and one day you’ll look back at old photos and realize what you had. You are not as fat as you imagined.”

Aesthetics matter to some of us (guilty as charged). But near the end of life, the conversation changes.

It’s no longer about appearance. It’s about energy, comfort, and capacity.

I think about it anytime I see stairs next to an escalator. I try to take the stairs, because I know that one day, I won’t be able to.

You’re probably thinking, wow, thank you for telling me what I already know. None of these reflections is really that original, dramatic, or groundbreaking stuff, and that’s the scary part. All of these little things become easy to ignore in the hustle of life and doom-scrolling.

We bargain with ourselves. We tell ourselves there is time. We will do it tomorrow or next month, or next year. That we’ll slow down later, once xyz (add what takes up your time here) is done. Only then can I rest, connect, and slow down. Ask yourself, how long have you been saying that you will read that book that’s been sitting on your shelf?

So, if no one makes it out alive, maybe we need to change the question we ask ourselves. Rather than what do I need to do/achieve, maybe it should be what do I want more of while I’m here?

What I’m trying to get across is this is really it, friends. There is no practice run or dress rehearsal in this crazy, beautiful, fucked up thing we call life.

As Bugs Bunny says, it truly will be a “that’s all folks!” for all of us, one day.

With care,
Niki

Not in a dramatic way. More in a polite, “oh… that’s… interesting” way. I can almost hear the internal what the fuck, the same tone people use when I tell them that I labelled my spice jars.

I’m in my early thirties. I’m not especially worried about dying tomorrow. On the odd chance it were to happen, I have a plan…and honestly, it just feels practical.

I didn’t make a death plan because I’m morbid (ok, maybe a little). I made one because I’ve seen what happens when people don’t have one.

When someone dies without any plans, the people who love them are left guessing. What would they have wanted? Who should decide? Where are the documents? What about their pet? Their phone? Their stuff (trust me, you accumulate a lot of shit in this lifetime)? Suddenly, on one of the worst days of their life, everyone is also trying to become a detective and a project manager.

Grief is already heavy. Adding logistics and uncertainty on top of it is brutal.

You’re probably wondering, what exactly is a death plan? A death plan differs from a will. It covers things people don’t always think about: what you’d want at the end of your life, who should take your prized collection of Beanie Babies that’s been sitting in your mom’s basement for the last decade, do you want certain music playing on your way out of this world, whether you want a funeral or something quieter, those types of things. It’s not about controlling everything; it’s about giving the people you love fewer impossible choices to make while they’re in shock.

I like to think of it the same way as travel insurance. I don’t buy it because I’m planning on getting food poisoning in another country. I buy it in case something goes wrong, I’m not dealing with chaos on top of stress.

It’s not pessimistic, morbid, or dark. It’s considerate.

For me, a death plan isn’t a thick binder. It’s clear choices written down and verbally shared with the people who would need them. That’s it.

There’s also something quietly clarifying about writing this stuff down. When you have to think about your last moments and who you’d want beside you at the end of your life, you get very honest about who and what matters. It has a way of cutting through a lot of noise and puts life into perspective.

So no, having a death plan doesn’t mean I’m expecting the worst. It just means I’m the kind of person who brings snacks and a charger, just in case.

Hopefully, I won’t need it for a very long time. But if I do, the people in my life won’t be left guessing.

With care,
Niki

My name is Niki, and I’ve recently found myself pursuing the work of a death doula.

I completed my death doula training at Douglas College in the summer of 2025, with the intention of creating a space for more honest conversations about aging, illness, death, and grief. These topics are often avoided until they become unavoidable, and by then, people are overwhelmed, exhausted, and unsure where to turn.

This Substack is a place to talk about those things more honestly.

Here, I’ll share reflections from my work and lived experience, along with practical, supportive thoughts on caregiving, end-of-life planning, and grief, including the kind that starts long before someone dies.

You’ll find posts here about:

• What death doulas actually do, and how we support folks

• Supporting aging parents and loved ones

• Navigating grief and mixed emotions

• Practical end-of-life planning

• Small rituals and grounding practices that can help during hard seasons

• Living alongside loss, rather than trying to “move on” from it

This isn’t about fixing grief or offering tidy answers. It’s about making space for what’s real, naming what’s hard, and helping people feel a little less alone as they navigate it.

You don’t need to be in crisis to be here. You don’t need the right words. If you’re caring for someone, thinking about the future, or simply curious about how we approach death differently, this space is for you.

You’re welcome to stay, read quietly, or share this with someone who might need it.

With care,
Niki
The Vancouver Death Doula

“Portable Person” photo taken at the Museum of Modern Art.

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