The Quiet Gift of Sitting With Someone at the End of Life
Holding vigil for someone nearing the end of life is a sacred space—one that strips away everything we spend our lives chasing. In those final hours, the house, the job, the car… none of it matters. There are no first‑class tickets for this part of the journey. What remains is simple: how we showed up for one another, and what we leave behind.
The modern movement to ensure that no one dies alone began in 2001, when nurse Sandra Clarke started NODA (No One Dies Alone) in Eugene, Oregon. Twenty‑three years later, I’m honored to be one of the volunteers carrying that mission forward in our own community.
My first vigil came on a cold January afternoon. I arrived at the hospital to relieve another volunteer and found a woman resting peacefully in her final hours, with no family or friends able to be at her bedside.
As I held her frail, soft hand—memorizing every crease and fold—I found myself in a space I’d never experienced before: pure, complete non‑judgment. I knew nothing about her beyond her first name. No story to compare, no history to evaluate, no opinions to form. Just two human beings sharing a quiet moment at the edge of life.
Curiosity replaced judgment. Had those hands planted gardens? Rocked babies? Wiped away tears? Created something beautiful? I’ll never know, but the wondering itself felt like a kind of reverence.
Yesterday we were strangers; today I walked beside her in the last hours of her life. I spoke her name softly, reassured her she was safe, and sat with her in a silence that felt gentle, not empty. Every so often, I caught the flicker of a smile—maybe a memory, maybe a presence she loved, maybe just peace.
When her breath finally slowed and stilled, the room remained quiet and calm. I pulled her blanket up one last time, thanked her for letting me be with her, and slipped out into the hallway.
Driving home, I thought about Sandra Clarke—about her simple idea to make sure no one dies alone, and how many lives have been touched because she acted on it. People often tell us that NODA volunteers give an incredible gift by sitting with someone who would otherwise die alone. And yes, offering companionship in those moments is a profound kindness.
But after my own first vigil, I realized something else:
the gift goes both ways.
the gift goes both ways.
Walking someone to the threshold of life—even someone you’ve never met—changes you. It softens you, enlarges you, and reminds you what really matters.
And maybe that’s the quiet legacy of NODA: not only ensuring no one dies alone, but reminding the rest of us how to live more fully, more gently, and more connected to one another.
Marc D Malamud
Transitioning Doula
The New Year's Resolution No One Talks About (But Should)
If you’re anything like us, you might already be missing that deliciously strange liminal space between Christmas and New Year’s—the black hole where time melts, to‑dos disappear, and no one knows what day it is. If you unplugged, we hope it gave you a breather, because that little pocket of magic won’t return for another year.
Now we’re all back in the grind. Your feed is probably overflowing with resolutions, anti-resolutions, productivity hacks, and “don’t you dare pressure me” January rants. So here’s something completely different to add to the mix:
You are going to die.
Yes. That’s the whole message. And also: that’s the most powerful way to start your year.
Contemplating your own death is the resolution to end all resolutions. It cuts through the noise, clarifies what truly matters, and jolts you back into the present moment—the only place where your actual life is happening. When you remember that time is limited (and that you have no idea how much of it is left), everything gets sharper, simpler, more honest.
Humans have been doing this for over 100,000 years—Buddhists, Stoics, ancient Egyptians, medieval Christians, Indigenous traditions. We’re the ones who forgot how. And somewhere in that forgetting, we also stopped fully living.
So here’s our challenge for 2026:
Make death contemplation part of your daily self‑care. Think of it as existential strength training. Start small. A few minutes. Here’s one easy Buddhist-inspired practice to try.
Make death contemplation part of your daily self‑care. Think of it as existential strength training. Start small. A few minutes. Here’s one easy Buddhist-inspired practice to try.
Once you start, your goals and intentions for the year reshuffle themselves. What matters rises. What doesn’t… evaporates.
Last year, this practice led Carolyn toward more travel, spontaneous adventures, the Hoffman Process, and devouring stacks of books. Maura wrote letters to wedding guests, hosted death dinners, dove deeper into MAID work, and embraced aging with humor. This year she’s committing to Spirit Rock’s A Year to Live program.
If you need convincing, here are a few of the science-backed benefits of thinking about death:
- Cuts through your bullshit. Excuses fall apart. What matters gets air.
- Clarifies your values. Priorities click into place.
- Boosts motivation. “Someday” becomes “now.”
- Deepens purpose. Meaning stops being something you chase and becomes something you make.
- Pulls you into the present. Life feels more vivid, right here.
- Amplifies gratitude. Even ordinary moments start to shimmer.
- Strengthens relationships. You forgive faster and love harder.
- Builds empathy. We’re all temporary; compassion gets easier.
- Ignites creativity. Mortality is powerful creative fuel.
- Keeps your ego in check. Humility = freedom.
- Encourages healthy risk-taking. Fear loses its grip; life opens.
The truth is simple:
The only thing scarier than dying is never having really lived.
The only thing scarier than dying is never having really lived.
Here’s to a year shaped by what matters most.
Marc D Malamud
Transitioning Doula
What My Father Taught Me About Dying
I remember the morning my father died.
It was 4:30 a.m. on a Sunday in mid-August 2005. I was helping him to the bathroom when he suddenly needed to sit down—and in that moment, in my arms, he passed. He died in his hallway at home
My dad had been living with phybrosis of the avioli for years.
Those last 72 hours were surreal. He and I talked about him getting a motorized scooter to improve his quality of life. He was back and forth. At the end I realized he was just waiting to have his last time with me.
Honestly, it doesn’t matter.
What matters is how we treat someone who is dying. Often, they move between two worlds: one we can see, and one we can’t. They might talk to people we don’t see, or describe things that aren’t there. This isn’t “crazy.” It’s a natural part of the dying process.
The mistake we make is dismissing it—treating them like they’re hallucinating or irrational. Even if you don’t believe in an afterlife, rejecting their experience can create fear and suffering in their final moments. The greatest gift we can give is acceptance.
Whatever they see, whatever they say—meet them there. Let them feel loved and understood.
If you’ve been with someone at the end of life, you may have seen similar things. My advice: try to enter their world, even for a moment. It’s hard—I couldn’t do it when my mom died at 30. I was drowning in grief. But when my dad passed at 48, I was able to be present in his world.
Life teaches us not just how to live, but how to die—and how to show up for those we love in their final moments. Being present is the greatest gift we can give.
Marc D Malamud
Transitioning Doula
“Why Wait Until the End? How to Confront Regret and Build a Legacy Now”
“Lessons from Deathbeds on Living Fully, Letting Go of Guilt, and Leaving an Impact”
“If only I had done such-and-such sooner. If only I hadn’t done such-and-such at all. If only I hadn’t said that awful thing. Why couldn’t I admit my mistakes? Why did I waste so much time staying? Why didn’t I leave sooner?”
Sound familiar? These are the refrains I’ve heard countless times as a hospice chaplain—posted at hundreds of deathbeds, listening to a lifetime of litanies about regret.
We all live with regrets. They’re part of being human. Some are fleeting—momentary pangs of conscience. Others weigh us down like stones, heavy with shame and culpability.
The question is: Do we wait until the very end to deal with them? Or do we start now?
The Nature of Regret
Regret often comes in waves:
- Why didn’t I get help?
- Why didn’t I see the signs?
- Why did I make that choice?
- Why didn’t I know myself better?
The truth is, age doesn’t automatically bring wisdom. Franciscan priest Richard Rohr, in his book Falling Upward, says about 60% of people go to their graves as “first-half-of-lifers.” They never reach that deeper maturity—the whole-adult perspective, keen self-awareness, and compassionate worldview that marks the “second half of life.”
That might explain why so many of my patients wrestled with the impression they were leaving behind. They questioned their integrity, their impact, their legacy.
Why Start Inner Work Now?
If we wait until the end, there’s little time to do more than make amends and forgive ourselves. But why live a life that accumulates piles of guilt? Not everyone gets the luxury of a lingering illness with time to reflect.
The natural juncture for inner work? Usually late 40s or early 50s. Some start earlier—and often feel out of step with their peers. But the sooner we begin, the lighter our emotional and spiritual baggage will be when the end comes.
A Story That Says It All
I was inspired to write this after reading a poignant—and slightly humorous—story in the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel about Carol, an 81-year-old woman from Madison.
Carol raised her children to avoid certain topics—politics, religion, money—in mixed company. But near the end of her life, she regretted being so polite about important issues. After hearing Senator Ron Johnson speak during the January 6 hearings, she told her family she wished she had spoken up more and done more.
That night was the last time her family saw her alive. She died in her sleep the next morning. Her obituary honored her love for family, friends, books, politics, and Chardonnay—and her final wish: to have been more outspoken about her convictions.
Carol thought she had time. We all do. Until we don’t.
What Legacy Will You Leave?
What spiritual and emotional heirlooms do you want to pass on? What kind of life do you want to manifest for your family, your community, and the world?
Legacy planning takes time. Now is the watershed moment. Reflect. Create a life you’re proud to bestow. Prepare for that ritual your family will hold when you pass to the next life.
Because we bring to the next life who we made of ourselves in this one.
Your Turn
What regrets are you carrying? What inner work have you postponed? What legacy do you want to leave?
Start today. Leave it all on the court.
Marc D Malamud
Transitioning Doula
Voices_On_Death_Row
Invictus — William Ernest Henley Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll. I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.
- Voices_On_Death_Row
Marc D Malamud
Transitioning Doula
Subcategories
Obituaries & Memorials
At Transitioning Doula, we believe that love continues long after a last breath.
This space is devoted to tender remembrance—a place to share stories, blessings, and the everyday moments that made each life uniquely precious. Through these tributes, we honor each beloved soul’s transition, hold their spirit close, and gently accompany the hearts who continue on without them.
This space is devoted to tender remembrance—a place to share stories, blessings, and the everyday moments that made each life uniquely precious. Through these tributes, we honor each beloved soul’s transition, hold their spirit close, and gently accompany the hearts who continue on without them.