Why I Became a Death Doula: Speaking into the Silence

When people ask me why I became a death doula, I rarely know where to begin. How do you explain a calling that began not with a decision—but with a loss?

My work is rooted in personal grief. Not the kind that fits easily into condolence cards or five-stage frameworks, but the kind that arrives early and never truly leaves. When I was ten years old, my mother died by suicide. That grief didn’t just shape my childhood—it became it. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was instructive. It taught me what kinds of pain could be named, and what had to be carried in private. I learned, too young, that children are often excluded from their own stories of loss.

No one sat me down to explain what had happened. Instead, they called it “girls’ night,” said she was working late, let the television do the talking. I was kept from the wake, the vigil, the goodbye. My grief was managed, not witnessed. Structured, not shared. I was praised for my strength, when what I needed most was someone to hold space for my sorrow.

This absence—of language, of ritual, of presence—is what I now work to repair.

I became a death doula not just to accompany people through death and dying, but to disrupt the silence that often surrounds it. I do this work for the ten-year-old I was, for the ghost of myself that sat on the stairs, waiting for someone to explain why everything had gone quiet.

I do this work because I believe no one should have to carry grief in isolation.

Grief, for me, has always been nonlinear, disruptive, and deeply queer. It doesn’t resolve. It shifts. It lingers. It changes you. And for those of us who are already living at the edges—queer, trans, disabled, or displaced—grief is often compounded by systemic erasure. Too many of us grow up without the language to mourn, the permission to ask, or the rituals that reflect who we are and who we’ve lost.

So I build those rituals with and alongside my clients.

My practice is rooted in dignity, presence, and justice-informed care. It holds space for the messy, complicated realities of loss—for the goodbyes that come too early, the words that go unsaid, the questions that remain. Whether I’m supporting someone at end-of-life, helping a family navigate anticipatory grief, or sitting beside a survivor whose grief was never named, I bring my full self into the room: care worker, trauma-informed counsellor, queer scholar, and the once-silent child who still believes grief deserves more than euphemisms.

Grief, in all its forms, is not a problem to be fixed. It’s a reality to be honoured. And death is not something we fail to prevent—it’s something we can learn to meet with care, clarity, and community.

At Dearly Departed Doula, I don’t offer quick solutions or one-size-fits-all answers. What I offer is space. Witnessing. Warmth. And the radical belief that everyone deserves to be seen, held, and remembered.

Especially the ones who never got to say goodbye.

With tenderness,

Jacob Barry (they/them)

BA, MA, MAC, PhD

Certified Death Doula & Grief Counsellor

Founder, Dearly Departed Doula