How to Write a Eulogy for Someone You Love

In my ten years as a funeral director in the Waikato, there was one sentence I heard in almost every family lounge I sat in.

"I'd like to say something. But I don't know if I can."

It's usually said quietly, often by someone who has been holding the whole family together for a week and hasn't slept properly in days. And it's always the same two worries underneath it — I won't find the right words, and I'll fall apart in front of everyone.

So if you've been asked to speak, or you've put your own hand up and immediately regretted it, here's everything I'd tell you if we were sitting at your kitchen table.

First: you don't have to

You can say no. You can say yes and change your mind. You can write something and ask someone else to read it, and nobody in that room will think less of you — I promise you they won't even notice.

You can also ask me to read it. I do this often, and I'll always say the words are yours, so your family knows whose they are.

Grief is not a test of public speaking. Please don't let anyone, including yourself, make it one.

It's shorter than you think

Three to five minutes. That's a good eulogy.

Written down, that's roughly 400 to 700 words — far less than most people expect. A funeral holds a lot of emotion in a short span, and a long tribute, however loving, asks more of a grieving room than it can give.

If several people are speaking, make it shorter still and agree between you who's covering what. Three people each telling the same story about the boat is a kindness to nobody.

Collect before you write

This is the step people skip, and it's the one that makes the difference.

Don't sit down with a blank page and try to summon a whole person. Instead, ring three or four people who loved them and ask one question: what's the first thing you think of when you think of them?

You'll get the same handful of things over and over — a phrase they always said, a thing they always did, the way they answered the phone. That repetition is your eulogy. It's the shape the person left in other people, and it's far more accurate than anything you'd have remembered alone at midnight.

Write it all down without judging it. The silly ones are usually the best ones.

Pick a shape

Most eulogies that work use one of three shapes.

The life. Born here, met this person, did this work, had these children. Clear and easy to follow, and the most common. The risk is that it becomes a list of dates, so make sure there's a person in amongst the facts.

The themes. Three things about them — their stubbornness, their garden, their terrible jokes — with a story under each. This one tends to feel the most like the person.

The one story. A single afternoon, told properly, that shows exactly who they were. Harder to do, but when it works it's unforgettable.

You don't need all three. Pick one and commit.

Be specific, and be honest

The same rule applies here as to wedding vows: specific beats poetic, every time.

Don't say they were generous — say they turned up at your flat in 2011 with a boot full of firewood you hadn't asked for. Don't say they were funny — tell us the actual joke, even if it isn't very good. Especially if it isn't very good.

And you are allowed to be honest. Not everyone was easy. If they were stubborn, say so, with love. If the last few years were hard, you can acknowledge it without dwelling. Families often tell me afterwards that the most comforting moment was the one where someone said the true thing out loud, because it meant the person being described was really theirs.

A eulogy that sands off every rough edge describes a stranger.

Reading it out: the practical bits

This is the part nobody prepares you for, so here it is plainly.

Print it. Fourteen point, double-spaced, on paper you've folded once. Not your phone. Not a crumpled sheet in a pocket.

Mark your breaths. Put a slash where you'll pause. When you're emotional your breathing goes first, and a marked page will carry you.

Know your hard line. There's almost always one sentence that will undo you — usually their name, or the last line. Read that one aloud at home until it loses some of its charge.

Have water, and have a wingman. Give a copy to someone in the front row who's agreed to come up and finish if you can't. Just knowing they're there is usually enough that you won't need them.

You're allowed to cry. Stop. Breathe. Look at one friendly face. The room is entirely on your side and will wait as long as you need — I've never once seen a congregation grow impatient. I'll be standing close by, and if you need me I'll step in.

Go slower than feels right. Everyone speeds up. Everyone.

Land the ending

Don't trail off into "anyway, we'll all miss him."

End on something small and concrete — the last thing they said to you, a thing you'll keep doing because of them, what you hope they'd think of the day. Then stop. A short, clean ending is worth far more than a long one.

Write that final line first, if it helps. Then you always know where you're walking to.

If you're facing this now

If you're sitting with a funeral ahead of you and a blank page in front of you, you don't have to do it alone. Helping families find the words is the part of this work I care about most — and after ten years as a funeral director, there isn't much I haven't heard or helped someone through.

I work with families across Morrinsville, Hamilton, Cambridge, Matamata and the wider Waikato, and I'm very happy to help you shape a tribute even if I'm not leading the service.

Please just reach out when you're ready.

With aroha,

Kathryn