I was incredibly moved by this video.
It’s just five minutes—but it stays with you.
In it, a man recounts the death of his father on a small Irish island—surrounded by family, neighbours, even strangers. As his father lay dying, the house filled. People came not just to visit, but to be with him. To sit. To pray. To carry him.
At the foot of his bed, someone began a prayer. The Hail Mary.
And as the words repeated—now and at the hour of our death—the voices grew louder. Stronger. Until the entire room was filled with sound.
He describes it as a lullaby.
A cradling into death.
And something about that image—tender and ancient—broke me open.
“This isn’t about ending something. It’s about reclaiming how I move through it.”
What struck me most wasn’t just the ritual, but the rhythm. The spaciousness. The time they took.
The body stayed in the home.
Children played near the coffin.
Grief was not sanitized or hidden—it moved, openly, communally.
Women guided the emotional current. And when someone new arrived, a fresh wave of sorrow was welcomed in, not shushed away.
This wasn’t about performance.
It was about allowing the human experience to unfold in full view.
At the funeral, they didn’t just show up—they came forward.
Each one shook hands with the family. Again and again. Hundreds of them. Pressing flesh to flesh. Saying:
“Sorry for your trouble.”
But it was more than that.
It was a grounding. A reminder. A chorus of truth:
They’re gone. They’re gone. They’re gone.
And in that truth—shared and spoken—something shifts.
Grief doesn’t vanish, but it softens. It finds form.
We don’t see this often anymore.
Not here. Not now.
So many deaths are quiet, clinical, lonely.
So many families are unsure—how to grieve, what to say, what’s allowed.
But this video… it’s a doorway.
A reminder that we can do this differently.
That death doesn’t need to be hidden behind sterile walls.
That grief doesn’t need to be managed or medicated.
That the rituals we long for are not lost—they’re waiting to be remembered.
And that’s the heart of my work.
Not to impose a way, but to offer space.
To make room for the cradling, the questions, the ache, and the love.
Whether
you’re preparing for your own goodbye, walking beside someone you
cherish, or simply feeling the weight of not knowing—there’s a path
forward.
It doesn’t have to be lonely.
It doesn’t have to be rushed.
It can be deeply human.
You don’t have to face this alone.
And you don’t need to have all the answers to begin.
When you’re ready, we walk together.
—Alessandra Sagredo
