Death: A Sacred, Natural Transition

I have witnessed the deaths of my father, my older brother, and my older sister. Those experiences made me wonder whether this is truly how we are meant to die. A cold, sterile hospital room is certainly not where I want to spend the final days—or weeks—of my life.

These losses led me to question the entire experience of death. Losing loved ones is sad and painful, and of course we miss their presence, but shouldn’t death be approached with some of the same openness with which we approach life?

Consider birth. We arrive from somewhere beyond our physical bodies—perhaps from the realm of soul or spirit. Those around us celebrate our arrival, but might we also be leaving others behind in order to be born? Our birth is met with joy and excitement as a new child is welcomed into the

family, and into the world.

Why, then, do we face death with such fear? Death is a natural part of life; one every person must experience. No one escapes it. If it is as natural as any other stage of life—many of which we celebrate—why do we resist embracing it?

Think of life’s milestones: graduation, marriage, retirement. Each is marked with celebration. If we honour so many passages in life, why do we not also honour death?

Death can mean that your purpose on earth is complete—that, in a sense, you have graduated. What you came here to do has been fulfilled.

We live in a rapidly aging society, where more people are confronting their mortality. Our hospital system is not prepared for the growing number of baby boomers who will need end-of-life care. Death will need another setting—and, more importantly, our perception of death must change.

When did death become so frightening? Why did it come to feel that way? It is, after all, part of the natural life cycle. Certainly, dying involves things we would rather not face, including separation from the people we love.

In a speech on death and dying, Dr. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h0oyKOZNV8o) discusses several reasons people fear death yet describes them as “a very small part of the fear of death and almost irrelevant.” These include fear of the unknown—though much of life unfolds without certainty—and lack of control, which is also common throughout life. Her point raises an important question: are these fears truly valid, and is there anything short of hoping for a miracle that can change the outcome? If you believe in reincarnation, as I do, perhaps the greater fear should be birth itself.

Returning to death itself, there is a growing movement to move dying out of hospitals—but into what? Hospices are being built each year, and while they may feel more like home and do their best to honour a patient’s wishes, they are still not home.

Why should it be frightening for someone to die at home, surrounded by the people who love them? Why can’t we normalize that experience? Many hospitals offer outreach services, and bringing a hospital bed into the home can make care more manageable.

What better place to die than in the comfort of your own home, or the home of someone you love? You could be surrounded by meaningful objects that create beautiful memories for you. You could choose how your final days unfold—from the music playing to the people in the room. Candles, open

windows, ritual, silence, stories: dying at home offers many possibilities.

When my brother was diagnosed with terminal liver cancer, I had the privilege of caring for him in his final months. During that tender time, I witnessed his pain and uncertainty, but also the love, closeness, and grace that surrounded us. His journey helped me understand the sacredness of life’s final chapter and the comfort compassionate presence can bring.

I also saw the gaps in end-of-life care within our medical system. Families are often left to navigate this profound transition with too little practical or emotional support. From that awareness—and from a desire to accompany others with tenderness and steadiness—I trained as an end-of-life doula

through Laurentian University, offering presence, guidance, and holistic care to people nearing death.

For me, end-of-life care means honouring each person’s unique way of letting go. My role is to support both body and soul, creating a space where people and their loved ones feel held, heard, and cared for. This work continues to show me how connection can ease fear, offer comfort, and reveal meaning even in life’s most uncertain moments.

I know my brother was ready to go. He had endured so much pain and was tired of living with it. Before he died, we spoke often about his approaching death, and he shared things with me that he had not shared with anyone else. I sometimes wonder whether he would have opened up to me if someone outside the family had been available, but he needed to release what he had been carrying. I felt deeply close to him during that time, yet I was saddened that I did not know how to make his death more meaningful for him—or for me.

When I watched my family members die, the rest of us sat around their bedside, waiting for their final breath. It was agonizing. Each death took place in a cold, sterile hospital room and felt painfully clinical. I wish I had known then what I know now about death and dying. I could have helped make their transitions gentler—perhaps not only for me, but for them as well.

Death does not have to be cold or sterile. It can hold beauty, even joy, if we allow it. If I could return to my brother’s final hours, I would help make his passing more loving and meaningful. I would create a ritual for him and for those gathered at his bedside. I would speak more, tell him how much his life meant to me, and invite others to share their favourite memories. The room would have been filled with more love.

My sister died by suicide and was in a coma before she passed, kept alive by life support until the decision was made to remove it. Again, I wish I had known then what I know now. I would have spoken to her more, told her how grateful I was to have her as my older sister, and shared stories of our time together, our vacations, our laughter, and the memories we made. I would have

played her favourite music, lit candles, and created a warmer, more loving atmosphere. I would have encouraged her son to speak to her more and shaped her passing into a ritual, calling on our ancestors to greet her as she left. She deserved a much gentler death.

I believe death can be approached as a sacred, natural transition when care reflects each person’s story, values, and wishes. Through thoughtful planning and honest conversations, I help individuals and families prepare with courage and clarity, creating space for comfort instead of fear. My sister’s death made me realize the importance of talking about death even when you think it’s not a conversation you need to have for many years. My sister was in her early 60s when she died. No one in the family knew what her wishes were for the end of her life. We did not know how she felt about being on life support, nor did we know how she would want her body to be handled at the end of life. Did she want to be buried, or cremated? We had no idea. We honestly thought we would have several more years with her before we had to have those conversations.

Many people have prepared wills in the event of sudden death; why do we stop there? Isn’t advance care planning and end-of-life planning not also a natural next step? Starting the conversation can be difficult; I can help with that.