I wrote this after sitting with a woman who was carrying so much... so many thoughts, feelings, and pieces of her life that felt like they were holding her back from letting go. In that quiet space, I told her she didn’t have to take it with her, she could give it to me, and I would hold it for her. And she did. In releasing it, she found peace… and soon after, she let go, taking her final breath with a sense of ease I could feel in the room. But then I found myself holding w

I am learning that sometimes... your story, your past, and even your disappointments can be used to help support others, to help them feel held, seen, and less alone. Maybe this isn't just my story, maybe it is yours too... (((hug))) Her Story By Gabby Jimenez For a long time, she carried the weight of her past quietly. The disappointments, the difficult moments, the relationships that didn’t last… all of it held close, tucked deep inside. She thought that if anyone saw it, r

The words “death with dignity” can have a different meaning for each person who uses them. They are often connected to Medical Aid in Dying (MAID), or End of Life Option Act where I am from (in California).  Sometimes this gets confused with words like euthanasia or suicide, and those words carry weight, judgment, fear, and even discomfort for those who hear them, as well as for those who say them. And I struggle with that, because that is not what this is about. At least no

I never imagined this would be the work my life would lead me to. It wasn’t something I planned for, or reached toward, or even understood from a distance. And yet… I find myself here. When I look back now, it feels like I have been walking through a life lined with doors… ones I thought were closed, ones I turned away from, ones I didn’t know how to walk through at the time. I think pain has a way of narrowing our view, convincing us that what we see in front of us is all th

Grief is something most of us think we understand… until we realize that other feelings, emotions, and experiences we have been carrying can also be called grief. We recognize grief when someone dies, but we don’t always recognize it when it lives quietly within us. Grief can be related to so many things that have added to the layers of our lives. It can be the childhood you didn’t have. The love you deserved but never received. The safety that was missing when you needed it

This morning I returned to something I used to offer others, a mourning walk. Years ago, I would gather people who were carrying grief and invite them to walk together in nature. Along the path we would collect what the forest had already released, rocks, feathers, fallen leaves, small sticks, dried flowers, never taking what was alive, only what had been gently given. When the moment felt right, we would pause and create something together. A small mandala, a heart, a simple

The other day, I got into my car at the post office and noticed a bee clinging to my driver’s side window. I assumed it would lift off once I started driving. It didn’t. I remember thinking that was strange , s urely the wind would carry it away. But I drove to the grocery store, and it was still there. I went inside, came back out, and it hadn’t moved. I drove to another stop. Still there. At first, I couldn’t understand it, why wasn’t it flying away? The wind pressed hard a

I was recently asked, “Gabby, what do we do when faith is such a powerful presence, and when a healthcare worker feels compelled to bring it into the room? How do we support those we work with who have strong beliefs, as well as those who don't, while still protecting the sacredness of the bedside?” This is not a simple question, because belief can be both deeply personal and deeply influential, especially in moments of vulnerability. For many, faith is not something they put

There is nothing ordinary about the ending of a life. I have stood at more bedsides than I can count, and witnessed more last breaths than I could ever number, and still, each one feels sacred. It does not matter how old someone was, how long they were ill, or whether their death was expected or sudden. The final breath is significant because it marks the completion of a life, an entire story that will never be lived in the same way again. That ending is big. It deserves to b

I was visiting a young man in his thirties, just days before his death. As I turned to leave his room, he called my name. “Gabby, promise me something.” I told him I would try. He said, “promise me that you will treat the next person you see as kindly as you treated me.” I promised him that I would. This story is not just about me though, it is about every clinician who has ever been at a bedside and understood that kindness is not an accessory to our work, it is the work. A

In my twenties, I thought life was waiting for me wide open, endless, something that would simply arrive. I believed I could be anything, do anything, and that one day it would all come together, never realizing that becoming, is something we grow into slowly, imperfectly, and on purpose.   I was young(er) then. Vibrant. Playful. I felt at home in my body, certain in my possibilities, unaware that youth itself was a season, not a promise.   In my thirties, life asked more of

Babcia. (pronounced  bob-cha ) - The Polish word for grandmother. Each family I meet teaches me something. I am invited into moments that are intimate, sacred, and deeply human, and I never take that invitation lightly. Still, there are rare times when a family reaches me in a way that stays, when their presence settles into me quietly and permanently. This was one of those times. It began with a text message from a woman who had been referred to me. We exchanged a few messag

I work in pediatric palliative care, and I am often asked questions most people don’t know how to ask. Recently, a high school student reached out, wanting to understand why children die from cancer. He wasn’t asking from a place of shock or disbelief, he and his classmates wanted to help, through fundraising, awareness, advocacy, or maybe one day by becoming the kind of doctors who can change outcomes for children altogether. I agreed to meet in person with him and three of

There are moments in life that don’t look important while they are happening. They only become heavy later. Almost thirty years ago, my dad came to my house for Thanksgiving. We did not have an easy or healthy relationship, so when he asked to come, I was surprised. He lived about an hour away, so I picked him up and brought him home to be with me, my kids, and my friends. He stayed a few days. It was… unexpectedly nice. At dinner, when we went around the table saying what we

One of my favorite lines from a Green Day song is, “I hope you had the time of your life” I heard it again recently, but it landed differently than it used to. Not as nostalgia. Not as a goodbye. But as a question, If this was all there ever was, and all that will ever be... Did we do it right? Did we live it well? Did we let ourselves have the best time we could? I used to think my legacy needed to sound impressive. That it had to prove I mattered. And maybe it still does, a

I am often asked what called me to this work, what brought me here. The truth is, I don’t really have a clean answer. This was never a goal. Never a plan. I didn’t set out to work in end-of-life care. I landed here while caring for a friend who was dying, at a time when I felt lost in ways I didn’t yet have language for. It was unfamiliar, uncomfortable, and far outside anything I imagined for myself. And maybe that was the best part, it challenged me in a way I felt compelle

When I look at this vase, I notice the petals on the table first. They are impossible to ignore. They feel like evidence, of time passing, of change, of what’s already behind us. As we age, this is often where our eyes go. To what we no longer have. To the energy that’s different now. To the version of ourselves we remember fondly, and sometimes mourn a little. The fallen petals can start to feel like a loss of beauty, a loss of possibility. Like proof that we are somehow les

Optimism often arrives at the bedside holding hands with hope. They are spoken together, breathed out softly, sometimes clung to. And almost always, they are misunderstood. There is a quiet judgment that can surface in these rooms. “ They are in denial. They don’t want to accept reality. They are pretending this isn’t happening.”  I hear it said about families who continue to hope, who allow optimism to live beside the truth that their loved one is dying. I don’t see denial.

Yesterday is a place we return to when today feels unbearable. It is where things still make sense. Where voices still sound familiar. Where routines exist and love feels intact. Yesterday holds what once was, and because of that, it often becomes a refuge when the present feels too sharp, too empty, too demanding. In grief, yesterday has weight. It carries phone calls that used to come easily. Ordinary moments that didn’t announce their importance while they were happening.

Memories are the places we return to long after someone is no longer here. They outlive goodbye. They outlast choice, distance, and death. They are the only thing that can carry a voice across time, the only way a laugh can still find us when the room is quiet. A memory takes you back without asking permission. It brings back the weight of a hand you once held, the exact sound of their voice, the way they looked at you when no one else was watching. And somehow, even when eve