I have walked by this house for several years. For months, maybe longer, I watched the house slowly become abandoned. The yard grew tired. Things began to look neglected. It seemed to be sitting there, quietly waiting for whatever would happen next. Two days ago, it was still there. Today, I walked by and it was gone. In its place was a giant tractor, a wide expanse of dirt, broken pieces of concrete, and an empty space where a home had once stood. I was surprised by how

I think about death a lot. After all these years working in end-of-life care, you might assume I would have become completely comfortable with the idea of dying. And in many ways, I have. I am not afraid to die; I just don't want to die yet. There was a time when I was afraid of death. I was afraid there would be pain. I was afraid it would be frightening or tragic. I even carried a deep fear of drowning for most of my life. I couldn't be in water if I couldn't touch the

I have noticed something over and over again when talking with people about dementia and Alzheimer’s disease. We tend to put the two words together. Someone forgets a name, gets confused, repeats a question, or begins having trouble managing things they used to do easily, and we say, “I think they have dementia.” Or, just as quickly, we say, “I think they have Alzheimer’s.” But these two words do not mean the same thing. And understanding the difference may help us replace so

I have spent much of my life working alongside people as they navigate some of the biggest changes a human being can experience. And if there is one thing I wish we gave people more often, it is permission. Permission to feel whatever they feel. Permission to make choices we may not make ourselves. Permission to grieve differently. Permission to change their minds. Permission to say, “This is what I need.” We talk a lot about autonomy in end-of-life care. But autonomy is abou

I wrote A Rest Among the Roots as a ceremonial reading for anyone who chooses to plant a tree in honor of someone they love. There is something profoundly beautiful about returning a person’s ashes to the earth beneath a living tree. It is a moment of letting go, but also a moment of connection, a way of honoring a life that was lived while creating something that will continue to grow. This poem was written to accompany that sacred ritual: as the ashes are placed into the ea

I woke up this morning after a dream in which I was trying to figure out the perfect gift for a young couple who was getting married. In my dream, I believe the young woman was my daughter, and perhaps that is why finding the right gift felt so important. I didn’t want to give her something from a registry. I didn’t want to give her something that could simply be bought. I wanted to give her something that might add value to her life. And then I realized that what I really

We spend so much of our lives learning. As children, we are curious about everything, we ask questions, make mistakes, try again, discover consequences, learn to apologize, learn to take responsibility, learn to love, and slowly begin to understand who we are. And then we become adults and somehow, we get so busy that we forget what a remarkable thing it is that we are here at all. We take it all for granted. In many ways, we forget all that we learned. I have been thinking a

One of my favorite bands to listen to right now is Role Model. And Tucker, aka Role Model, is… well… a cutie. He is also younger than my daughter, so I am going to behave myself here. Mostly. LOL But the truth is, I love his music. All of it. But every time I hear Sally, something wakes up inside me. The girl who used to love to dance. The woman who knew how to have fun. The part of me that didn’t give a damn what I looked like, who was watching, or whether I was being approp

I saw three hearts on my way into work this morning. Not real hearts, of course, leaves that had fallen on the ground and were in the shape of hearts. Years ago, I might have looked at them and thought they were a sign. Something romantic. Something meant for me. Today, they made me think about love in a much bigger way. Maybe that is one of the things that happens when we have been here awhile. We begin to slow down. We notice things we might once have walked right past.

You were here... and then you were gone. I can't seem to stop thinking about that. I try to go back to the memories… to visit the times we shared. I try to hold onto the good things... the laughter, the moments, the gift of having you in my life. I remind myself how lucky I was… To have known you, to have loved you, to have been loved by you. But the truth is… I miss you. Everything has changed. I still get up every morning... I go through my day, I tend to my garden,

I want to begin by saying something important: I am not an expert in dementia, and I am not going to explain the differences between Alzheimer’s and dementia, or give you a medical explanation, or tell you what to expect clinically. Despite my years of caring for aging adults, many of whom lived with dementia, that isn't what I want to talk about here. I want to ask you to see dementia through a different lens. The lens of the person who has been diagnosed. There is a tre

Many of you know about my book, “When Words Have New Meaning.” Some of you have read it. Some of you know what it was I was trying to do when I wrote it. The book is filled with words we use every day, words we often say casually, sometimes without really stopping to consider what they mean. Many of those same words take on an entirely different meaning when we enter the world of end-of-life care, grief, and loss. So, I took those words and gave them my meaning. Not a dic

I have been present for many after-death bathing’s over the years. Some were quiet. Some were filled with tears. Some, surprisingly, were filled with laughter as families shared stories and memories while caring for someone they love. Every one of them taught me the same thing…caring for someone's body after they die isn't really about the body, it is about love. For thousands of years, across nearly every culture and faith, families have gently washed the bodies of those t

When I was about eighteen years old, I worked in a store in the small town where I grew up. One of my coworkers was a young boy, a weekend shelf stocker; he was kind, funny, and easy to talk to. Even though he was younger than I was, we became friends. One afternoon I was driving through town when he flagged me down. "Hey, Gabby... do you have a minute?” I was in a hurry, and I do remember seeing the urgency in his face, but I was focused on where I was going. I told him I

Working in pediatric palliative care has opened my eyes to the siblings. The brothers and sisters who are watching someone they love navigate a life-limiting illness while life around them changes in ways they may not fully understand. They are not intentionally overlooked, but when one child requires more care, attention, time, and energy, the sibling can quietly become the one who is expected to be “okay.” And I find myself thinking about what they must be grieving besides

Working in end-of-life care has changed the way I see almost everything. It has taught me to slow down, to notice what matters, and to hold each day with a little more gratitude. But perhaps the greatest gift has been something I never expected. It has taught me that some of the most meaningful moments in our lives are also the most uncomfortable. The conversations where we speak up. The moments where we choose to really listen. The apologies we finally offer. The forgiveness

The first time I lost my sister, she didn't die. She was just gone. When I was little, before my dad kicked her out of our house, I used to sneak into her bedroom whenever she wasn't home. It was my favorite place. No one else would have ever understood why. No one needs to. Her room was always a mess. The bed was never made. Clothes covered the floor. Drawers were left halfway open with things spilling out. Half-burned candles sat on dressers layered with dust so thick

Do not mistake my age for my ending, I am not fading, I am not shrinking, I am not quietly stepping aside so the world can pretend I was never here. No, sweetheart... I am just getting started. I have lived through things that tried to soften my voice, dim my light, bend my back, break my spirit. And yet, here I am... Still standing, Still laughing, Still learning, Still choosing, Still becoming, Fifty did not make me invisible, It made me clearer. Sixty will not make me less

I no longer write from wounds. I write from scars. There is a difference. Wounds ask questions. Scars carry wisdom. Wounds reach for answers. Scars have learned that not every question was meant to be solved. Some were simply meant to change us. My scars do not ask for sympathy. They do not need to be explained. They are quiet reminders of every life that touched mine, every goodbye, every heartbreak, every moment that asked me to become someone I had never been b

There are moments in life that will forever change the way you enter another person's space. I want to share one of mine with you. Several months ago, I had the privilege of being asked to start supporting a woman as she prepared for the end of her life. During one of our conversations, I shared that I had begun studying sound healing. She asked if I would bring my singing bowls the next time I visited. What began as practice soon became something neither of us expected. As t