Learning to Walk Beside Death
June 2026 | by Nicky Gibney
Over the past nine months, death has become a more frequent companion in my life than I ever expected.
I lost my mother. Then I lost my sister-in-law. More recently, one of my oldest school friends was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer. Each loss and each piece of difficult news has arrived differently, yet together they have created a profound shift in how I think about life, love, and mortality.
Like many people, I spent much of my life treating death as something distant. It was an inevitable reality, of course, but one that seemed to belong to another time, another place, another chapter. Then suddenly, it was here.
Grief has a way of changing our perspective. It strips away assumptions and asks us to look closely at what really matters. In the quiet moments after funerals, during long walks, or in conversations with friends, I found myself asking questions I had never explored deeply before. What does it mean to die well? How can we support those approaching the end of life? Why do so many of us fear talking about death when it is the one experience every human being will share?
These reflections have led me to consider becoming a death doula.
For those unfamiliar with the role, a death doula provides emotional, practical, and sometimes spiritual support to individuals and families facing the end of life. Much like a birth doula supports people entering the world, a death doula supports people as they leave it. The idea resonates deeply with me because it acknowledges something we often forget: dying is not simply a medical event. It is a human experience.
The more I have thought about it, the more I have realised that many cultures have long understood this truth.
In Western society, death is often hidden from view. It tends to happen behind hospital doors, spoken about in hushed voices or avoided altogether. Yet many cultures embrace death as an integral part of life's natural rhythm.
In Mexico, the Day of the Dead, or Día de los Muertos, is a celebration rather than a sombre occasion. Families gather to remember loved ones, creating colourful altars and sharing stories. The dead are not forgotten; they remain part of the family narrative. Memory becomes a living bridge between worlds.
In Buddhist traditions, death is viewed as a natural transition rather than an ending. The principle of impermanence teaches that everything changes, everything passes, and clinging too tightly to permanence creates suffering. While grief is acknowledged, there is also an acceptance that life unfolds in cycles beyond our control.
Many Indigenous traditions around the world view death as part of a continuous relationship with ancestors. Rather than severing connections, death transforms them. Loved ones remain present through memory, wisdom, and ongoing spiritual connection.
The Japanese concept of Mono No Aware (translated as the ‘pathos of things’) speaks to a gentle awareness of life's transience. It recognises the beauty that exists precisely because things do not last forever. Cherry blossoms are treasured not despite their brief bloom, but because of it.
These philosophies do not remove pain. The loss of my mother still hurts. The absence of my sister-in-law is still felt. The uncertainty surrounding my friend's illness brings moments of fear and sadness. But these perspectives offer something valuable: they remind us that death is not a failure of life. It is part of life.
This idea appears repeatedly in literature that has helped me navigate grief.
One book that profoundly influenced me is Dr Atul Gawande’s Being Mortal. In it he explores how modern medicine often focuses on extending life while overlooking what makes life meaningful. He argues that dignity, autonomy, and connection matter just as much as treatment. Reading it encouraged me to think differently about what a "good death" might look like.
Another powerful book is by Nina Riggs; ‘The Bright Hour” A Memoir of Living and Dying .. A mother and poet, she was diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of 37 and died shortly afterwards. Rather than offering easy answers, it demonstrates how meaning can endure in the little things, even in the face of death.
I have also found inspiration in the work of Caitlin Doughty. Doughty encourages open conversations about death and challenges many of the fears that modern societies attach to it. Her writing helped me see that talking about death does not diminish life—it can actually enrich it.
Perhaps that is what has emerged most strongly from these past nine months.
Far from making me pessimistic, these experiences have made me more aware of life's preciousness.
I notice small moments more often: morning light through a window, a conversation over coffee, a message from a friend, laughter around a dinner table. Grief has sharpened my appreciation for ordinary joys. When we understand that nothing lasts forever, we become more present to what exists right now.
The seasons offer a useful metaphor. We do not mourn autumn because leaves fall from the trees. We understand that falling leaves are part of a larger cycle. Winter creates space for rest and renewal. Spring brings new growth. Nature accepts endings without resistance because endings make beginnings possible.
Human beings are part of that same natural rhythm.
Of course, knowing this intellectually does not erase sorrow. Love and grief are intertwined. We grieve because we love. The depth of our sadness reflects the depth of our connection. Yet there is something comforting in recognising that grief itself is evidence of a life richly lived and relationships deeply cherished.
As I contemplate becoming a death doula, I am increasingly drawn to the idea of accompanying people through one of life's most significant transitions. Not to fix, rescue, or remove pain, but simply to be present. To listen. To witness. To help create space for meaningful conversations and compassionate endings.
Perhaps that is what death teaches us when we allow ourselves to learn from it.
It teaches us to value time. To express love while we can. To forgive more readily. To pay attention. To recognise our shared humanity.
Death is not separate from life. It is woven into its fabric. Every ending reminds us that every beginning is precious.
While I would never have chosen the losses of the past nine months, they have invited me into a deeper understanding of what it means to be alive. They have shown me that grief and gratitude can coexist, that sorrow and beauty often walk hand in hand.
And they have inspired me to explore a path where I might one day help others navigate that journey too.
After all, if birth deserves care, compassion, and companionship, perhaps death does as well.
Nicky Gibney, BA(Hons), LCCH, RSHom