These aren’t my mother’s shoes. But they remind me of them. When my mother was dying, she chose to spend her final days in the downstairs bedroom. It was easier. Close to the bathroom. Close to the heart of the house. At some point, she stopped going upstairs to her room. I don’t remember exactly when. What I do remember is going back up there after she died. I stood in the doorway and just took it all in. Everything was exactly as she left it. The room felt full… and empty

Growing up, I don’t remember having many meaningful conversations around death, dying, or grief. And that’s not shade, it’s just the...

A couple of months ago, I met a gentleman during an Uber ride, and we struck up an interesting conversation. It began with him sharing a...

A day after what would have been my mother's 69th birthday, I find myself contemplating the various ways we honor our loved ones,...

Today, I want to delve into a topic that resonates deeply with my role as a death doula - communication. While often seen as a conveyance...

My name is Neiasha Russell, and for years I have been captivated by the profound and transformative nature of death and dying. I realized...