Pass the (Hot) Potatoes

Since becoming a celebrant, I’ve found myself talking about death a lot more than I used to. I’m an absolute blast at dinner parties, let me tell you. Nothing says “pass the potatoes” quite like a lively chat about crematorium committals and the logistics of scattering ashes.

I'm starting to get used to it now, but it took me aback at first. We don’t really do death in this country, do we? Not openly. Not comfortably. We tiptoe around it with euphemisms and lowered voices. But once people know what I do, the floodgates open. They’re fascinated. They want to know everything.

And the question that comes up time and again is: Why do you do it?

It's a fair question. The pay’s not great. The work is intense. You spend hours—sometimes days—crafting something meaningful and personal that gets spoken once and then folded away.

So… why?

Partly because it matters. Because even when we don’t talk about it, death still shows up—and when it does, the people left behind need words that help them hold on and let go. They need truth. Comfort. Humanity.

It’s not glamorous. It’s not lucrative. And it’s definitely not easy. Because when someone you love dies, everything is raw. The edges of the world feel sharper. No one really knows what to say, and the clichés come thick and fast. “He had a good innings.” “At least she’s at peace now.” “Time is a healer.” After my dad died, someone gave me a bible inside which they'd written, 'For Susy, who has lost a dad but still has a father.' Seriously. They thought they were helping.

You smile politely (or secretly rage inside), because you know people mean well—but what you really want is for someone to get it. To speak the unspeakable. To name the ache in your chest and the absurdity of trying to carry on as if the world hasn’t shifted beneath your feet.

It's a huge responsibility, and I can't lie—the first time I stepped into a grieving family’s living room as a celebrant, I felt like a bit of a fraud.

Not because I didn’t care—I did, deeply. But because I wasn’t sure I’d earned the right to ask the questions I needed to ask. Who was this person? What made them laugh? What made them them?

And yet, within minutes, there it was: the shift. The moment someone said, “Oh—there’s a story you should tell…” and we were off. Because grief, once it finds its voice, wants to be heard.

That’s the quiet magic of this work. You walk into a home full of loss and you get handed someone’s whole story. Not the glossy, Instagrammable version, but the real stuff: the stubbed toes and terrible jokes, the cup of tea routines, the soft sigh when they looked out the window. All the little things that make a person matter. Your job—my job—is to take all of that and shape it into something that feels like a gift. A gathering of words that people can wrap around themselves when the rest of the world has moved on. Words that say: They were here. They meant something. You loved them, and that love goes on.

And sometimes, if I’m lucky, the right words come. Not perfect words. Not clever ones. Just something that lands in the quiet space where love and loss sit side by side. Something that offers people what they didn't even know they needed and couldn't have articulated on their own. Something that makes them say, “That’s exactly how it was.” Or, “You said what I didn’t know how to say.”

And that’s it. That’s the reason I do this. Not for the applause (there isn’t any). Not for the money (ditto). But for the privilege of sitting down with strangers and helping them find the shape of something sacred. Not with incense or scripture or a fill-in-the-blanks template or ceremony for ceremony’s sake. But for the quiet privilege of being trusted with someone’s story—and offering it back, gently, truthfully, in a way that helps people feel a little more seen.

Because someone out there has a wound in the exact shape of my words. And if I can help those words find their way home, then I reckon I’ve done my job.

Not to fill the gap. But to honour it.

To soften the edges.

To remind someone that they’re not alone.