Eulogy Examples: 12 Sample Eulogies for a Mom, Dad, Grandparent and More (2026)

These eulogy examples are here to help you write and give one for someone you love: a mother, a father, a grandparent, a husband or wife, or a friend. Each sample is written to be spoken aloud, runs one to four minutes, and comes with a note on what makes it work, so you can borrow the shape and fill it with your own person.

Quick answer

A good eulogy is three to five minutes long (about 400 to 700 words). It opens with who you are and a thank-you, gives a little of the person’s life in order, tells one or two stories that show who they were, and ends by speaking to them or to the people they left. The stories matter far more than the facts: the room already knows the dates. What they want is to hear the person again for a few minutes.

If you only have tonight, go to the fill-in template, then read the example closest to your person.

About these examples

I’m Arthur Cho, founder of Memoirji, a tool that interviews people about their lives and writes up what they say. More than 250 people have finished a memoir with it, so I read a lot of life stories told in people’s own words, and a eulogy is the one life story most families have to tell out loud, often with only a few days to write it.

Every example on this page is invented. The names, towns and details are made up, so you can borrow the shapes freely. Where a place would go, I’ve left a placeholder like [PLACE]. Each example is written in a plain speaking voice, with short sentences that are easy to read aloud when your voice isn’t steady.

What is a eulogy?

A eulogy is a short speech given at a funeral or memorial service that honors the person who died. The word comes from the Greek for “good words” or “praise”. Unlike an obituary, which is written to be read, a eulogy is written to be heard: it’s personal, it tells stories, and it’s usually given by someone who knew the person well.

How long should a eulogy be?

Most people read aloud at about 120 to 150 words a minute, and slower when they’re emotional. Use this as a guide:

Length	About this many words	When it fits
1 minute	120 to 150	Several speakers, or a short graveside service
3 minutes	350 to 450	The most common length
5 minutes	600 to 700	One main speaker, a full service
7 minutes or more	900+	Only if the family asks for it

Ask the funeral director or officiant how long you have. If you’re one of several speakers, shorter is kinder to everyone, including you.

12 eulogy examples

1. Eulogy for a mother (from a daughter)

Good morning. I’m Susan, Rose’s oldest daughter. Thank you for coming, some of you from a long way, and thank you to the nurses at [PLACE], who were kind to her right to the end.

My mother was born in 1942 in Johnstown, Pennsylvania, the fourth of six children, in a house with no hot water. She used to say she learned two things in that house: how to make a pound of ground beef feed eight people, and how to win an argument without raising her voice. She used both skills for the rest of her life.

She married my dad, Frank, in 1963. They had $40 and a borrowed car, and they drove to Niagara Falls for a honeymoon that lasted exactly one night, because Dad had to be back at the mill. She brought that up at every anniversary for 52 years.

Mom worked nights at the hospital laundry for eleven years so she could be home when we got off the school bus. I didn’t understand until I had my own kids what that cost her. She never once said she was tired. She said she was “resting her eyes,” usually in the middle of the church bulletin.

She had rules. Shoes off at the door. No hats at the table. If you borrowed her Tupperware, you brought it back, and you brought it back with something in it. I have some of her Tupperware at home right now, and I’ve been trying to work out what to put in it.

What I keep coming back to this week is how she listened. You could call her with good news or terrible news, and she’d say the same thing first: “Tell me everything.” And she meant everything. She wanted to know what the doctor’s office smelled like and what the man in the waiting room said. She remembered all of it, and she’d ask about it a month later.

In the last year, when her memory started to go, she couldn’t follow everything anymore. But she still asked. Every visit: “Tell me everything.” So I did.

Mom, I’ll keep telling you. Thank you for the bus stop, the Tupperware and every phone call. We love you.

Why it works: one story per stage of her life, a house rule everyone in the room will recognize, and her own phrase (“Tell me everything”) used as the thread that ties the beginning to the last line.

2. Eulogy for a father (from a son)

I’m Dave, Walt’s son. Dad believed every speech ran ten minutes too long, so I’ll do my best.

Walter Brooks was born in 1939 on a dairy farm outside Eau Claire, Wisconsin. He was milking cows before school by the age of eight, and he never slept past 5:30 in his life, including on vacation, which he didn’t really believe in.

He served two years in the Army in Germany, came home, and spent 34 years at the paper mill. He married Mom, Joan, in 1962, and they were married 58 years.

Dad was not a talker. If you wanted to know how he felt about you, you had to watch what he did. When I was sixteen, I put my first car in a ditch on County Road K. I called home expecting the worst. He showed up in twenty minutes with a tow chain, pulled me out, checked that I was all right, and said exactly one thing on the drive home: “Ditches are part of driving.” Then he took me out to practice driving in the snow every Saturday that winter.

That was Dad. He didn’t give speeches. He gave Saturdays.

He coached Little League for 22 years and never once yelled at a kid. He fixed every lawnmower on our street and refused money for all of them. When my daughter was born, he built her a cradle in his garage and pretended he’d bought it at a store, because he didn’t want anyone making a fuss.

The last time I saw him well, we sat in his garage and he showed me where everything was. Where the good wrench was. Which key opened the shed. I think now he knew. That was his way of saying goodbye, and of telling me he trusted me.

Dad, I know where the good wrench is. Ditches are part of driving. We’ll be all right. Thank you.

Why it works: it doesn’t try to make a quiet man sound talkative. It tells what he did, and one line (“He didn’t give speeches. He gave Saturdays.”) says what the whole room was thinking.

3. Eulogy for a grandmother (from a grandchild)

Hi, everyone. I’m Emily, and I’m one of Grandma June’s eleven grandchildren. She would want me to say that she loved us all the same. She would also want me to say that this changed depending on who had called her that week.

Grandma June was born in 1938 in Lubbock, Texas, and moved to Phoenix after she married Grandpa Carl. She taught third grade for 31 years. People still stop my mom at the grocery store to say that Mrs. Ellison taught them cursive and made them sit up straight.

To us, she was the grandma with the candy dish that was always full and somehow always butterscotch. She sent a birthday card to every grandchild, every year, with a two-dollar bill inside, including the year my cousin turned thirty-five.

She played gin rummy like it was a contact sport. She taught me when I was six, and she did not let me win. Not once. The first time I beat her, I was fourteen, and she shook my hand like I’d won an election.

The thing I’ll remember most is her kitchen table. Whatever was wrong, you sat down, she put a glass of iced tea in front of you, and she said, “Well. Let’s hear it.” She never told you what to do. She asked questions until you figured it out yourself, and then she acted surprised at how smart you were.

Grandma, I still have every two-dollar bill. I’m keeping the butterscotch going. And I’ll keep playing gin rummy, and I won’t let anyone win. I love you.

Why it works: a grandchild’s eulogy can be lighter than a child’s. Small, specific things (butterscotch, two-dollar bills, gin rummy) let every cousin in the room remember their own version.

4. Eulogy for a grandfather (from a grandchild)

My name is Marcus, and Pop was my grandfather. When I was little, I thought he was the strongest man alive, and I’m still not sure I was wrong.

Pop, Leon Carter, was born in 1936 in Birmingham, Alabama. He moved to Chicago at nineteen with one suitcase and drove a city bus for 30 years. If you ever rode with him, you know he said good morning to every single person who got on, and he expected a good morning back.

He and Grandma Bernice were married for 61 years. He called her “the Boss,” and he meant it.

Every summer, Pop took the grandkids fishing. I don’t remember us catching much. I remember him sitting on an upturned bucket with his coffee, telling stories: walking six miles with his brother to watch the Birmingham Black Barons play at Rickwood Field, the job he lost for standing up to a foreman, the night he met Grandma at a church dance and stepped on her feet the whole time.

I didn’t know then that the stories were the point. The fishing was just how he got us to sit still.

Pop taught me that you shake a man’s hand and look him in the eye. That you’re never too important to say good morning. And that if you’re going to be late, you’d better call.

Pop, I’m taking my kids fishing next summer. I’ll sit on the bucket. I’ll tell them your stories. Thank you for every one.

Why it works: it passes his stories on in public, which is what he was doing all along, and the three short lessons give the room something to take home.

5. Eulogy for a husband (from a wife)

I was married to Tom for 47 years, and I’ve never once had to speak in front of people without him finishing my sentences. So bear with me.

Tom Hendricks was born in 1951 in Dayton, Ohio. We met in 1976 at a friend’s wedding, where he spilled punch on my dress and spent the rest of the evening apologizing. I married him two years later, mostly so he would stop apologizing.

He was an electrician for 40 years. He wired half the houses on the west side of this town, and he never left a job without sweeping up. He thought you could tell everything about a man by whether he swept up.

We had two children, Jenny and Mike, and he was the kind of father who showed up: every recital, every game, every parent-teacher conference, in his work boots, usually a few minutes late.

People ask me what the secret was, 47 years. I don’t think there was a secret. He brought me coffee in bed every morning, even after his knees went. He told me I was beautiful on days I wasn’t. And when I was wrong, he waited until the next day to say so, which gave me time to figure it out myself.

The house is very quiet now. I keep expecting to hear the screen door and “I’m home, Annie.”

Tom, you finished my sentences for 47 years. I’ll have to finish them myself now. I’ll try to make them good ones. Thank you for the coffee, and for everything.

Why it works: the opening line admits how hard this is and gets a gentle laugh, which relaxes the speaker as much as the room. The quiet house and the screen door say what grief feels like without saying the word.

6. Eulogy for a wife (from a husband)

I’m not much of a speaker. Carol was the speaker in our family. So I wrote this down, and I’m going to read it.

Carol Ann Mitchell was born in 1949 in Spokane, Washington. She was a nurse for 38 years, most of it with newborns in intensive care, and I couldn’t count the families in this church who’ve told me she held their baby on the worst night of their lives.

We were married for 51 years. She ran our house, our money, our calendar and, frankly, me. She knew everybody’s birthday. She sent anniversary cards to couples who’d forgotten their own anniversaries.

She loved her garden, her roses especially, and she named them after her sisters. There’s a yellow one called Peggy that’s still blooming out back, which Carol would say is just like Peggy: stubborn.

In the last year, she spent a lot of time making lists for me. How to work the washer. Which pills were mine. Who to call about the furnace. I’d tease her about it, and she’d say, “Somebody has to look after you.” I understand those lists now. They were her way of still looking after me.

Carol, I’ve got your lists. I’ll water Peggy. I’ll send the cards, though they’ll be late. Thank you for 51 years. I’ll see you again.

Why it works: it’s honest about the speaker (“I’m not much of a speaker”), which earns the room’s patience, and the lists turn a hard last year into an act of love.

7. Short eulogy example (about one minute)

Thank you all for being here for Dorothy. Most of you knew her as Dot. She was 88, she lived in this town her whole life, and she worked at the library for 40 years, where she could find any book you asked for and several you didn’t. She raised three children on her own after Bill died, and she never once let us see her worry. She loved crossword puzzles in pen, Perry Como records and a long walk after supper. If Dot liked you, she knitted you a scarf. Looking around this room, I see a lot of scarves. Dot, thank you for every book, every walk and every scarf. You kept us warm. We’ll keep you close.

Why it works: in about 120 words it gives her age, place, work, family, three loves and one image (the scarves) that the whole room can see. It’s a good shape for a graveside service or when several people are speaking.

8. Funny eulogy example

Before I start, I need to tell you that Uncle Ray wrote half of this himself. Two years ago he handed me a list titled “Things to Say at My Funeral,” and the first item was “Tell them I was taller.”

So: Ray was taller.

Raymond Kowalski was born in 1945 in Buffalo, New York, and he believed three things with his whole heart: you service the snowblower in August, the Bills are always one good season away, and no restaurant in America makes a better fish fry than the one he went to every Friday since 1971. He was right about the fish fry.

Ray sold insurance for 35 years, which is why he could tell you, to the dollar, what every roof in this room was worth. He was the uncle who taught every kid in the family a card trick and then refused to tell anyone how it worked. My cousin Danny is 52, and he’s still asking.

He was a terrible cook and a wonderful host. He’d burn the burgers, apologize to nobody, and make sure every single person had a drink and a chair before he sat down.

But Ray was funny because he paid attention. He noticed when you were down, and he’d keep at you until you laughed and forgot about it for a while. That was his real trick.

Ray, we’re going to the fish fry on Friday. We’re telling everyone you were taller. And Danny says if you could send a sign about the card trick, he’d appreciate it.

Why it works: the jokes are his own, so nobody wonders whether it’s appropriate. And the turn (“Ray was funny because he paid attention”) gives the laughter a reason before the last joke lets everyone smile on the way out.

9. Eulogy for a friend

I met Barb in 1974, in the laundry room of an apartment building in Columbus, Ohio, when she asked if she could borrow a dryer sheet. I said yes. Fifty-two years later, she still owed me one.

Barbara Lindqvist was my best friend. We raised our kids in the same neighborhood, and we got through two layoffs, one divorce (hers) and one cancer scare (mine) together. We talked on the phone every Sunday at 7 p.m. for more years than I can count. Our husbands learned not to call the house at 7 on a Sunday.

Barb was the friend who showed up. When my mother died, she was at my door with a casserole and a roll of stamps, because she knew I’d have thank-you notes to send. When I had surgery, she drove two hours each way, three times a week, and complained the whole drive about my radio stations.

She was blunt. If your haircut was bad, she told you. If your boyfriend was bad, she told you, usually in front of him. But if anyone else said a word against you, she’d have it out with them in the parking lot.

I don’t know what I’m going to do at 7 o’clock this Sunday. I think I’ll sit by the phone for a while, like always. Barb, thank you for fifty-two years and one dryer sheet. I love you.

Why it works: a friend’s eulogy can say what family members sometimes can’t: what the person was like as a friend, blunt edges included. The Sunday phone call makes the loss concrete.

10. Religious eulogy example

In the Gospel of John, Jesus says, “In my Father’s house are many rooms.” My grandmother would have liked that verse, because she always had a room ready for anyone who needed one.

Evelyn Grace Harris was born in 1940 in Memphis, Tennessee, and she was a member of [CHURCH] for 63 years. She sang alto in the choir, taught Sunday school to two generations of children, and never missed a Wednesday night prayer meeting unless she was in the hospital, and even then she asked the chaplain to pray with her at seven.

Her faith wasn’t something she talked about as much as something she did. She drove church members to doctor’s appointments. She cooked for every family that lost someone. She took in two foster children in the 1980s, and both of them are here today.

When I was going through a hard time in college, I called her in the middle of the night. She didn’t give me a sermon. She said, “Baby, I’m going to pray for you, and then you’re going to get some sleep.” Then she prayed, right there on the phone, and I slept.

Grandma believed with all her heart that this isn’t the end, that she’s in that house with many rooms right now. I believe it too. Grandma, save us a room. We’ll see you soon.

Why it works: the verse opens and closes the eulogy, and her faith is shown through what she did rather than described. If the service is in a church, check with the minister or priest first: some traditions keep the eulogy short or move it to the vigil or the reception.

11. Eulogy for someone who lived with dementia

For the last six years, my father, Henry, lived with Alzheimer’s disease. Some of you only knew him in those years. I want to tell you about the man he was before, and about the man he still was, right to the end.

Henry Novak was born in 1937 in Cleveland, Ohio, to parents from a village in what is now Slovakia. He was a machinist for 41 years, and he could make a part to a thousandth of an inch. He married my mother, Helen, in 1960. He loved polka, pierogi and the Cleveland Browns, in about that order, except during football season.

The disease took a lot from him. It took names, then faces, then most words. But it didn’t take everything. Until the last month, if you put music on, he’d tap his foot in perfect time. If you held his hand, he’d squeeze back. And every time a nurse helped him, he said “thank you,” even when it was nearly the only thing he could still say.

I learned something in those years. The person is still there, even when the memories aren’t. Dad didn’t know my name at the end, but he knew I was someone who loved him. That was enough for both of us.

Dad, you taught me to measure twice and cut once. You taught me to dance badly and not care. And at the end, you taught me that kindness is the last thing to go. Thank you.

Why it works: it gives the long illness one honest paragraph, then gives the person back to the room: his work, his loves and what stayed with him to the end.

12. Eulogy when the relationship was complicated

I’ll be honest with you, because my mother always was: she and I didn’t always get along. Some of you know that. Some of you were there for the arguments.

Margaret Shaw was born in 1944 in Bakersfield, California. She was sharp, proud and hard to please. She worked as a bookkeeper for 30 years, and I don’t know of a single mistake she ever made in a ledger. She expected the same from the rest of us, and we often fell short.

But here’s what I’ve been thinking about this week. When my son was born early and spent three weeks in the hospital, my mother drove up every single day. She didn’t say much. She sat in the chair by the window and knitted, and every evening she left a small sweater at the end of his crib. Twenty-one sweaters. I still have every one.

She wasn’t easy. She was also the person who showed up for those three weeks without being asked. Both things are true, and today I want to honor both.

Mom, we didn’t always understand each other. But I understand the sweaters. Thank you for them. Rest now.

Why it works: it doesn’t pretend, and it doesn’t settle scores. It names the difficulty in one line, finds one true and generous memory, and stays short. Nobody expects more from you than that.

Eulogy template (fill in the blanks)

Copy this, fill in the brackets, then read it aloud and cross out anything that doesn’t sound like you.

Good [morning/afternoon]. My name is [YOUR NAME], and I'm [NAME]'s
[RELATIONSHIP]. Thank you for being here.

[NAME] was born in [YEAR] in [PLACE]. [One or two sentences about where
they grew up and what shaped them.]

[One sentence about their work, service or what filled their days.]
[One sentence about the people they loved: spouse, children, grandchildren.]

What I'll remember most is [ONE QUALITY]. [A short story that shows it:
a specific day, a specific place, and something they said.]

[NAME] always said, "[THEIR SAYING]." [What that saying meant to you or
to the family.]

[Speak to them directly, or to the room: what you'll carry on, a promise,
a thank-you.] Thank you.

Filled in, that comes to about 300 to 450 words, or three minutes.

10 eulogy opening lines

1. “Good morning. I’m [NAME], [NAME]‘s [daughter/son], and I want to thank you all for being here. She would have counted every one of you.”
2. “If you knew Dad, you know he’d want this short. So I’ll try.”
3. “Mom had a saying for everything, and the one I keep hearing this week is…”
4. “I’ve been trying to work out how to fit 86 years into five minutes. I can’t. So I’m going to tell you about one Saturday.”
5. “Most of you knew him as [NICKNAME]. I knew him as Grandpa, and he was the best one I could have had.”
6. “We were married for [NUMBER] years, and this is the first time I’ve had to talk about her without her correcting me.”
7. “When I asked my family what I should say today, every one of them said the same word: [WORD].”
8. “She was born in a house with no telephone, and she grew up to be the person everyone called first.”
9. “I’m going to read this, because I don’t trust my voice today, and he’d understand that.”
10. “Thank you for coming. Before anything else, I want to thank the people who looked after her at the end.”

How to end a eulogy

The last line is the one people remember, and it’s the hardest to say. Keep it short.

• Speak to them: “Mom, thank you for every phone call. We love you.”
• Make a promise: “I’m taking my kids fishing next summer. I’ll tell them your stories.”
• Use their words: “As Dad always said, ditches are part of driving. We’ll be all right.”
• Hand it to the room: “If you have a story about her, find us at the reception. We want to hear every one.”
• A reading or blessing: a short verse, prayer or poem that the person loved.
• A simple goodbye: “Rest now. Thank you.”

How to write a eulogy in 7 steps

1. Ask how long you have. Check with the funeral director or officiant, and find out who else is speaking so you don’t tell the same story.
2. Gather stories, not facts. Call two or three people who knew the person well and ask: “What’s the first story you think of?” Write down their exact words.
3. Pick one or two qualities. Generous, stubborn, funny, devoted. Then choose the story that shows each one best. One well-told story beats ten listed qualities.
4. Put the life in order. Two or three sentences: where they were born, what shaped them, work, family. The room needs a frame, not a résumé.
5. Find the thread. A saying, an object or a habit you can mention at the start and come back to at the end. It holds the whole thing together.
6. Write it the way you talk. Short sentences. Contractions. No words you wouldn’t say out loud. Then read it aloud and cut whatever trips you up.
7. Print it big. Use 16 to 18 point type, double-spaced, with page numbers. Mark where to pause. Bring two copies, and give one to someone who can finish it for you if you need them to.

Tips for giving a eulogy

• Practice out loud three or four times. The hardest lines get easier each time you say them.
• Slow down. You’ll want to rush. Aim for about 120 words a minute, slower than feels natural.
• Pause after the funny lines and the hard ones. Let the room laugh or breathe.
• It’s all right to cry. Stop, take a breath, have a sip of water and carry on. Nobody minds.
• Look up at the end of each section. You don’t need eye contact the whole time. Just find one friendly face.
• Leave the rest for the reception. You don’t have to say everything. Other people will tell their stories later.

Eulogy vs obituary

	Eulogy	Obituary
Form	Spoken aloud	Written and published
Where	Funeral, memorial or celebration of life	Newspaper, funeral home website, memorial page
Length	3 to 5 minutes (400 to 700 words)	Usually 150 to 400 words
Content	Stories, character, what they meant to you	Facts of their life, family, service details
Voice	Personal, first person (“I”, “we”)	Third person (“she”, “he”)
Who writes it	The person giving it	Usually a close family member

If you’re writing both, start with the obituary: it collects the facts you’ll need. Our obituary examples have 15 samples and a fill-in template. If you’re writing a card to someone else who’s grieving, here’s what to write in a sympathy card.

When you wish you’d asked more

Almost everyone writing a eulogy hits the same wall: the stories you most want to tell are the ones only that person could have told you properly. How they met. What their first job was like. What they were afraid of at twenty, and what they were proud of at eighty.

If your other parent, a grandparent or an older relative is still here, this is a good moment to ask them. Here’s how to interview elderly parents about their life stories, with questions that open people up. Or let them tell it themselves: Memoirji asks them about their life one question at a time, in their browser, on WhatsApp or on LINE, and writes their spoken answers up as chapters. It’s free to start. A family history book can hold those stories for the whole family.

If you’re the one thinking ahead, you can leave your family the words instead of the guesswork: here’s how to write your own obituary, how to write an ethical will or legacy letter, and how to plan your own funeral, including who you’d like to speak.

Frequently asked questions

What is a good example of a eulogy?

A good eulogy is three to five minutes long and does three things: it tells the room a little of the person’s life in order, it tells one or two stories that show who they were, and it ends by speaking to them or to the people they left. Example 1 on this page, a daughter’s eulogy for her mother, follows that shape and runs about three minutes.

How do you start a eulogy?

Say who you are and how you knew the person, then thank people for coming: “Good morning. I’m Susan, Rose’s oldest daughter. Thank you for being here.” After that, a single vivid sentence works better than a long biography: a saying, a habit or the first thing everyone thinks of when they hear the name.

How long should a eulogy be?

Three to five minutes is the usual length, which is about 400 to 700 words read at a calm pace. If several people are speaking, keep yours closer to two or three minutes. Ask the funeral director or officiant how much time the service allows before you write.

What should you not say in a eulogy?

Leave out family arguments, money and inheritance, the details of a painful illness, private jokes that only two people understand, and anything the person would have been embarrassed to hear said in public. If a story needs a long explanation, it probably belongs at the reception, not the podium.

How do you end a eulogy?

End by speaking directly to the person (“Mom, thank you for every phone call”), with a promise to carry something on, with their own saying, or with a short reading or blessing. Keep the last line short so you can say it without your voice breaking, and then simply say thank you and sit down.

What is the difference between a eulogy and an obituary?

An obituary is written to be read: a published notice of the death with the facts of the person’s life and the service details. A eulogy is written to be spoken aloud at the funeral or memorial, and it’s more personal: stories, character and what the person meant to the speaker.

Who gives the eulogy at a funeral?

Usually a close family member or friend: a son or daughter, a spouse, a grandchild or a sibling. Sometimes several people each speak briefly, and sometimes a minister or celebrant gives it using stories the family shares. There’s no rule; the family decides.

How do you write a eulogy for your mom?

Start with who she was before she was your mother (where she grew up, what shaped her), then choose two or three stories that show her best qualities, and use one thing she always said as the thread you come back to at the end. Example 1 on this page is a eulogy for a mother you can model yours on.

How do you write a eulogy for your dad?

Many fathers showed love by doing rather than saying, so tell what he did: the Saturday he taught you something, the thing he fixed, the job he did for decades. Pick one story and tell it well. Example 2 on this page is a son’s eulogy for a father who wasn’t a talker.

Can a eulogy be funny?

Yes, if the person was funny and the family agrees. Humor works best when it’s affectionate and true, and when it’s followed by one sincere line that shows why the funny thing mattered. Example 8 on this page is a funny eulogy that still lands gently at the end.

What if I can’t get through it without crying?

That’s normal, and nobody in the room will mind. Print it in large type, mark places to pause and breathe, and keep a glass of water nearby. Ask someone you trust to stand with you or to finish reading it if you can’t. Many speakers practice it out loud three or four times so the hardest lines lose some of their sting.

Can I write my own eulogy in advance?

Yes. Some people write a page about their own life, or leave notes of the stories they’d like told, so their family isn’t guessing. It sits well next to your own obituary and a letter to the people you love. Our guides on how to write your own obituary and on ethical wills cover both.

Before you speak

Pick one story. Find the thread. Print it big. That’s most of a eulogy. The rest is just letting the room hear them one more time.

And if there’s someone in your family whose stories you’d like to hear while they can still tell them, Memoirji lets them tell their life in their own words, by talking. Nothing to download, no password, and it’s free to start.