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

One of the places I meet the most resistance at the end of life is around the use of medications to relieve symptoms such as pain, agitation, or delirium. The medications I am referring to, are often morphine, lorazepam, or haloperidol, which are commonly included in the comfort or relief kit provided when someone begins hospice care. What families struggle with most is the fear that these medications may cause their person to sleep more, or become deeply sedated, and in doin

It begins long before the last breath Long before the room goes still It starts in that first moment when a diagnosis enters the air and something inside you quietly tightens. From there, the waiting starts You hold your breath without meaning to through each update each slow change each “let’s see what tomorrow brings” You learn the landscape of decline by instinct listening for shifts no one else hears showing up again and again because love holds you in place. Caring for s

One of the questions I am asked more than almost any other is this: “Why do we stop food and water at the end of life?” It is a question filled with tenderness, and often, with fear. Families struggle. Clinicians and caregivers struggle. Anyone who has ever cared for someone who is dying knows how deep the instinct is to nurture, to comfort, to give. We equate food and water with love, with survival, with doing right by someone we care about. And so, when we are asked to stop

We don’t talk about it often, but the moment someone begins to decline, whether it’s subtle or sudden, caregiving quietly becomes a form of grieving. It doesn’t matter if you are caring for them for days, weeks, months, or years. From the first sign of change, anticipatory grief settles in. You begin preparing for a moment you can never truly be prepared for. You keep showing up, doing what needs to be done, holding the weight of each day because you have to. It’s an act of d

We use the word so casually, but for so many of us, it carries the weight of an entire lifetime. Being a professional isn’t about a title someone gives or takes away. It’s about the moment you decided to learn something that would challenge you, stretch you, and change you. It’s the decision to enter a field, any field, where people rely on you, where knowledge matters, where skill matters, where heart matters. A professional is someone who steps into that responsibility with

There are people in our lives who become lighthouses, steady, unmovable, shining for us even when we are convinced we should be able to walk the shoreline alone. They show up despite whatever storms they are weathering themselves. They see us clearly, past all the ways we try to appear strong, and they accept us without a second thought. For many of us, these are the people we reach for only when we have run out of ways to pretend we don’t need anyone. Something in us knows t

Acceptance means many things to many people. As I grow older, I find myself understanding it in deeper and more layered ways than I ever have before. Acceptance is about making peace, with an ending, a change, a loss, or a reality we never asked for. It can mean coming to terms with the end of a relationship, a shift in our home or work, or even life-altering news that changes everything. We are constantly invited, sometimes unwillingly, to find acceptance in what is handed t