The Eulogy as an Introduction: What I Learned from 50 Eulogies
stories
For a good portion of my life, I've had a rather interesting job: I've written over 50 eulogies. Out of all of them, only one was for a member of my own family, and even then, it was a relative by marriage. Most of my work has been as an outsider, called in to listen, to record, and to shape words on behalf of others.
My writing has primarily been one of two things. Sometimes, it's a matter of taking dictation, where I transcribe, nearly word for word, what a family member or friend says into a final write-up. Other times, it means taking an editorial role, synthesising multiple biographical submissions and personal anecdotes into one cohesive narrative that truly reflects a person’s life with dignity.
But out of all those eulogies, one stands apart. The hardest, most heartbreaking one I have ever had to write was for a baby who lived for only three days.
The Eulogy as an Introduction: What I Learned from 50+ Eulogies
Writing for that child changed everything I thought I knew. Normally, eulogies come with plenty of material: long lives full of moments, milestones, adventures, mistakes, and triumphs. You have childhood memories, career highlights, the quirks and habits that made someone unique. But with a newborn, there were none of those. Even the parents found it too painful to speak, and yet something needed to be said.
At first, I felt paralysed. How could I close a story that had not even begun? And then I realised—I wasn’t closing anything. What I was writing wasn’t an ending at all. It was an introduction. That experience taught me the most practical lessons I needed to know when it came to writing eulogies. These three things have not only helped me understand their importance, but also why they need to be done.
Lesson 1: Eulogies Are Greetings, Not Endings
I had always assumed that eulogies were written to provide closure to the story of the dearly departed. But here I was, writing the story of a newborn baby. It was, logically and from an outsider’s perspective, not so much a closure to a journey that had not even begun, but more, a greeting.
It was a prolonged greeting, meant to accompany the baby on their step to the other side, where they would use it to introduce themselves. To this day, I imagine baby Alex—not his real name—arriving on the other side, holding his eulogy like a small bundle of notes. This would be his introduction. His greeting.
"My name is Alex. I was alive for three days, but loved for nearly nine months. In those months I was kicked and wriggled so much my mother called me Ronaldo-Messi, because she swore my moves rivalled the great footballers. I was a swimmer too, safe in my mother’s womb—never once did I drown in there! When I arrived, I was on time. My mother had been screaming for a while, but I silenced her with my very first cry, and the whole room clapped. My father, poor man, sweated more than my mother that day. In my short life I was cuddled and swaddled, I found my way to fresh milk, and I even teased my elder sister, Millie, who seemed fascinated by me. I met grandparents, uncles, aunties, cousins. Some were too afraid to hold me, but they all tried, and I smelt each of them and passed from hand to hand. Even when breathing became hard, I was never afraid. My mother was holding me. My father was calling the doctor. Everyone said it would be okay. And it was. My name is Alex. I am my parents’ second child, and Millie is my sister."
In that moment, I stopped looking at eulogies as a farewell message. It is not the ending of their story, nor is it the closure for those left behind. It's a greeting for the one who has gone ahead.
In many traditions, this is already understood. In Chinese culture, for example, the eulogy is considered part of the soul’s journey, helping ancestors find their place in the afterlife. The eulogy for a child, in this context, is not a painful reminder of loss but a vital piece of the child's identity for their new spiritual home. From a selfless perspective, the eulogy is not just about us letting go, but about giving them something to carry forward. This shifts the focus from the grief of the living to the dignity of the departed.
Lesson 2: The Family is Not the Story
Of course, not every eulogy is so pure. Often, when someone has lived a longer life, complications appear, and nowhere do they show up more clearly than in family dynamics. It can be small things, like who writes "the main" eulogy, or big things, like trying to erase aspects of a life because the "inner" circle does not approve. Spouses, children, and even siblings can be erased by the key writers. This is not about being neutral or keeping it clean, as a profile should be; it's about families arguing to the extent that complete parts of a person’s life are erased, and some family members are sidelined.
As a writer, I don’t interfere or take sides. I know that grief has a way of sharpening tensions, and funerals can bring hidden quarrels into the open. I write what I am told. But as an observer, I can’t help but notice in those moments, the focus seems to shift from the one who has passed to the people who remain. In almost all cases, the eulogy becomes less about honouring a life and more about settling old scores or protecting reputations.
Over time, I have learned how to handle this. It requires a defensive approach. One way is to provide options for the family. This can involve having the main biography written with milestones and achievements, and then getting different family members to write their own short pieces. I have learned that if the ego of the moment is taken away and the focus goes not on the feuds, but on the loved one’s life—long, short, flawed, amazing, and impactful—the eulogy can become pure and intentional.
This requires nuance and patience. It also requires that the family is genuinely interested in a resolution. Therefore, it depends on my contact or the main communication person from the funeral committee. I have had to decline a couple of invitations if the ‘group’ or person inviting me decides to whisper in my ear on some things in order to change my neutrality. Worse, if this invitation is a futile exercise—a PR move—for the person or group to ‘show’ they made an effort, while it was all in vain!
My defensive approach is to bring structure to the whole situation. This is how it goes: Before a single word is written, the most respected, neutral family elder can be called to the process. Another thing to note is that I am invited solely because as a professional writer, I am considered neutral. The goal isn’t to argue, but to listen. Each branch of the family—the spouse, the children, the siblings, the in-laws—shares one key story they feel must be included. I look up to the neutral elder of the group and if they give a heads-up, then I don my hat of a writer. In this case, my role is to be the scribe of this meeting, weaving these threads into a tapestry that represents the whole family. This is our African way: conflict resolution through communal dialogue and respect.
Another way is to apply the approach called the “multi-voice eulogy.” This is an inclusive version that takes all the parts rather than coming to a middle ground. A child reads their piece, a sibling reads theirs, a friend from the factory reads a short memory. This acknowledges that no single person owned the deceased's entire story. It honours our concept of Ubuntu—"I am because we are"—by showing how the individual was reflected in their entire community. It makes the sending-off a collective act, not a contested one.
Lesson 3: When Truth and Values Collide
Sometimes, however, the conflict is not only about family politics. Sometimes it is about values. This is where a big disconnect exists between the person who has passed and the values of those who are left to write the eulogy. This happens, for example, with a person who might have been non-religious but their relatives choose to "send them off" in a strictly religious way. Or a person who was a single parent, but their relatives insist on presenting them as if they were married. This is an issue that goes beyond family dynamics and comes down to a stand—a line they cannot or will not cross.
I remember two brothers who called me about their sister. She had been divorced for years, living her life as a single mother. But when she died, her parents insisted she be presented as “married” in the funeral programme, even acknowledging the ex-husband. The brothers were devastated. Their sister’s truth was erased, rewritten to suit the family’s version of respectability.
This happens more often than you’d think. A person may have been openly non-religious, but their send-off is drenched in church readings they never believed. A single parent may be turned into someone’s spouse. A whole identity can be wiped away in the space of one service.
It raises difficult questions. Is a eulogy meant to comfort the living, or to honour the truth of the dead? Do we soften reality for the sake of peace—or does that peace come at the cost of honesty? I have no easy answer. But I know that too often, we whitewash lives. And in doing so, we lose something precious.
A New Tradition for a New Age: The Living Eulogy
Perhaps the answer lies not in reacting at the last minute, but in being proactive. What if we began a new tradition of “living eulogies” or ethical wills? A way for each of us to leave behind our own wishes: the stories we want told, the songs we want sung, the truths we want honoured.
This doesn't have to be complicated. It could be a conversation over supper: “When my time comes, this is how I’d like to be remembered.” It could be a page tucked into important documents. What matters is that it comes from us, while we are still here.
Another idea is to use neutral celebrants—trusted figures who can frame a farewell with dignity and honesty, without bending to family pressure. Some cultures already do this. The celebrant simply reminds everyone: “We are here to honour this person as they truly lived, in the fullness of their life and values.” That sets a tone of truth, gently but firmly.
In Conclusion: Shared Wisdom Is Better than Single-Sourcing!
I don’t naively believe every eulogy can be as raw and simple as Alex’s. But I do believe the lesson from his short life still holds. If we start from honesty and clarity, we can end with dignity.
The stories we tell about those who have died are the stories we live with. They shape our grief, our healing, and our memory. So let us tell them well. Let them be greetings, not just endings. Let them be truthful, not just comforting. Let them be bridges—between generations, between truths, between this life and whatever lies beyond.
And now I ask you: have you faced any of these challenges in your own family or community? Was the eulogy you heard or helped to write a true reflection, or was it reshaped for the living? And if you found a way through the conflicts, how did you do it?
I believe we can learn from one another’s experiences. Together, we can help families to write eulogies that truly honour life—in all its truth, its love, and its complexity.
