Sometimes, in my classes, I encourage people to write letters. Letters to be opened after they die. Letters that tell the people they love one last time just how much they mattered. Sometimes I suggest writing a letter before death instead. A letter that offers forgiveness. A letter that heals an old wound. Or maybe simply a letter that says, “I was thinking about you.” But before anyone ever puts pen to paper, I often ask one question. Why are you writing it? It seems like s

You only get one chance to be yourself. One life. One voice. One brief turn on this earth. And yet so many of us spend years becoming who other people need us to be. The agreeable version. The quiet version. The version that asks for less. Needs less. Stays small. Keeps the peace. We learn to read the room. To soften our opinions. To change our shape. To become whoever is needed in that moment. A different version for work. Another for family. Another for friends. Another for

When I was a little girl, I remember watching everyone get dressed up and gather at our house. I asked where they were going. “To your grandmother’s funeral,” someone answered. I didn’t even know she had died. At the time, I remember feeling sad, but not fully understanding why. Children often accept what they are told because they trust the adults around them. It wasn’t until years later that I began asking myself… Why didn’t anyone tell me she was sick? Why didn’t I get to

I recently came across a phrase that stopped me in my tracks: The puzzle won't piece. I believe that the phrase is commonly used to describe a relationship that no longer fits. No matter how much you try to make it work, the pieces simply don't belong together anymore. I've been there... I can relate! But when I heard it this time, I thought about grief. Because if there is ever a time when the puzzle won't piece, it is after someone we love dies. At first, we often believe t

I recently sat beside my 325th patient who chose to exercise their legal right to ingest the Medical Aid in Dying (MAID) medications. No matter how many times I bear witness to the end of a human life, it remains an honor. While I understand there are many people who do not support MAID, and I respect that, it is something I do support because I have seen the suffering that often comes long before the decision itself. No one arrives at this choice lightly. It usually comes af

It’s one of the most common questions caregivers carry, and one of the heaviest. It usually comes after a decision that didn’t feel like a choice at all. Moving someone out of the home. Starting hospice. Saying yes to more care. Saying no to something you thought you would always say yes to. And then the quiet comes… and with it, the question. Did I do the right thing? Here’s what I gently offer to those sitting in that space: Ask yourself… Was your person safe? Were you abl

There is a place where love does not end when a life does. It is my memory... They continue to live on in the names I still say, in the stories I tell, and in the quiet moments that find their way back to me. It is as if my memories are colorful hearts hanging from trees beautiful moments left for all to see. Each memory tied gently, like something sacred… colorful, alive, moving with the wind the same way they are still moving within me. I will not stop saying their name. I

Working in end-of-life care has taught me a lot about life, about how we live it, and what we carry with us. What I see most often at the end isn’t fear, it is regret. Time spent holding onto anger, the weight of guilt, and the ache of unresolved hurt. And in those final moments, so many people are simply trying to let it go. I understand that, because I have carried a lot too. A lifetime of experiences, disappointments, and a version of myself shaped by how I thought others

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 not fo

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