Why Talking About Death Matters

By Lisa Judson

My mum had eight siblings. Her youngest sister, Jean, or as I called her, my Diddy Aunty (for context, she was under five feet tall and I was taller than her by the time I was eight), was like a second mum to me. When I lost my mum in 2009, it was my Diddy Aunty who quietly stepped in and filled that space.

So when she was tragically killed seven years ago, the impact was enormous.

Nobody expected it. There was no preparation. No warning. Just shock. And grief. Somehow, in the middle of all that, it fell to me to care for her husband and organise her funeral. When I asked him what he would like for her service, he simply stared at me and said, “I’ve no idea, ducky. We never talked about it.” Tentatively, I replied, “Well actually, I know. She told me.” He looked at me, equal parts indignant and relieved, and asked, “Why did she do that?”

The answer was simple. “Because I asked her.”

You see, by that point I had already played this very sad game several times before. For my mum. For my dad. For my brother. And so, when I was driving my Diddy Aunty home from one of my other aunties’ funerals, I turned to her and said, “Diddy Aunty, what do you want to happen at your funeral?”

She was shocked. She laughed and said, “Oh, I don’t know, our Lisa. It doesn’t matter because I won’t be here.” But I gently persisted. I explained that while it was true she wouldn’t be here, I most likely would be. And as she had no children of her own, it would probably fall to me to make those decisions.

So, sitting in the car outside the wake, we talked. About burial and cremation. Music and prayers. What mattered to her and what didn’t. She didn’t love the conversation, but she had it.

And when the terrible day came that took my Diddy Aunty away so suddenly, I already knew exactly what she wanted, from start to finish. That was the last funeral I delivered before I decided to train formally and become a celebrant. I realised that if I could stand up and deliver the eulogies for my mum and dad, and the full funerals for my brother and my Diddy Aunty, all of whom I loved dearly, then I could help other families do the same.

Now, I speak to dozens of families every year to create funeral services. And if I had a pound for every time someone looked at me in shock and said, “I’ve no idea what they would have wanted,” I would never need to work again. You see, dying matters. More than most of us realise.

If you flip things on their head and think about how much planning goes into welcoming a new baby into the world, it’s astonishing that we do not prepare in the same way for our death. Because while none of us knows when it will come, there is one certainty. We all arrive in this world, and we will all leave it.

And I don’t mean by simply buying a funeral plan. That’s important, yes, but it’s only the bare bones. A funeral is not just about whether you are buried or cremated, or which coffin is chosen. It’s about who you were. What people loved about you. How you want to be remembered.

If I’m honest, the funeral is not really for you. It’s for the people you leave behind. It’s their chance to say goodbye, to remember, to honour your life, and to begin to understand what it means to live without you. And when someone dies, the amount there is to organise, emotionally and practically, cannot be underestimated.

Currently, around 20% of funerals in the UK are direct cremations. I don’t have an issue with that in itself. But I do see the other side. I always tell the families that I work with that a funeral acts as a full stop. The end. The moment that gives permission for grief to begin. And if that moment doesn’t exist, it can leave a gap for those who need to honour and celebrate a life.

That’s why I often suggest alternatives such as Celebrations of Life. They can be less formal, more flexible, and free from time restrictions. They can be deeply personal and meaningful.

Because of how strongly I feel about this, I created a service within my celebrancy work called The Personal Goodbye. A chance to write your own funeral, long before you need it. Not because you are ill. Not because death feels close. But because peace of mind matters.

Living funerals have existed for some time, with celebrants supporting people who are terminally ill to write their own funeral. But I realised there are many people who are well, active, and full of life, who nonetheless worry quietly about what would happen if they died. Who would organise things? Would it be done well? Would it reflect who they really are? The Personal Goodbye takes that worry away. It’s done. You can put it in a drawer and get on with living.

I’ve already told my children what I want. I’m even in the middle of writing my own eulogy so they don’t have to worry about getting it right. And yes, I have a file in my cabinet marked, “Everything you will need when I’m partying with Jesus.” They know that I want them to take half of me to my favourite Cornish coastline and the other half to San Francisco so that my final resting places are where I love most in the world! I try to normalise discussing death so that it doesn’t hit so hard when it happens.

And so, as uncomfortable as it can feel, I cannot encourage you enough to talk about death. To talk about your wishes. To talk about how you want to be remembered.

Because ultimately, dying really does matter.

About the Author

Lisa is mum to three amazing adult children and is endlessly curious about the world around her. She loves travelling and discovering new places, believing that each new experience helps broaden her horizons and deepen her understanding of people, cultures and life.

As a celebrant, Lisa feels genuinely honoured to stand alongside families at some of the most meaningful and significant moments of their lives. She approaches her work with care, compassion and attentiveness, striving to create ceremonies that feel personal, authentic and supportive.

Alongside her celebrant role, Lisa runs a visual stress consultancy and works with corporate organisations to raise awareness of neurodivergence, helping to create more inclusive and understanding workplaces.

In her spare time, Lisa finds joy in gardening, open water swimming, and volunteering with the local asylum seekers in her town. All things that reflect her belief in connection, kindness and community.

More details at Lisa Judson, Celebrancy Services and Visual Stress Solutions.

 

Photo of Porthcurno beach, Cornwall, by Lisa Judson.