How to Write a Eulogy

A eulogy is a short speech given at a funeral or memorial that honors the person who died. It is spoken aloud, usually by a family member or close friend, to a room of people who loved them. Its job is simple: to help everyone remember who this person really was.

A eulogy is different from an obituary. An obituary is written to be read on a page, lists facts and dates, and announces the death. A eulogy is written to be heard. It leans on stories, character, and feeling. If you have already written the obituary, you have your facts. The eulogy is where you bring the person back into the room.

Aim for three to five minutes. That is roughly 500 to 750 words, or about one and a half pages double-spaced. It feels short when you are writing and exactly right when you are standing up there.

There is a reason to keep it tight. A grieving room has a limited capacity to listen, and you have a limited capacity to speak without breaking. A focused five minutes that lands is far kinder to everyone than fifteen minutes that wanders. If several people are speaking, coordinate so you are not all telling the same story.

You do not need a clever format. This five-part shape carries almost any eulogy, and you can write the parts in any order.

• fiber_manual_recordOpen with who you are. One sentence. “For those who don’t know me, I’m David, Mary’s youngest.” It grounds the room and steadies you.
• fiber_manual_recordSay who they were. A few sentences on their character. Not their resume, their essence. The thing everyone in the room would nod at.
• fiber_manual_recordTell two or three stories. This is the heart of the eulogy. Specific moments that show the person rather than describe them. More on finding these below.
• fiber_manual_recordName what they gave you. A lesson, a value, a way of being that lives on in the people listening. This is where grief turns into gratitude.
• fiber_manual_recordClose by speaking to them or to the room. A short goodbye, a thank you, or a single line you want everyone to carry home. Keep the last line simple.

The stories are the whole thing, and they are usually hiding in plain sight. If you are stuck, work through these prompts and write down whatever comes, even in fragments. You will use a few of them.

• fiber_manual_recordWhat is the first memory of them that comes to mind?
• fiber_manual_recordWhat did they say so often it became a family saying?
• fiber_manual_recordWhat were they doing when they seemed most themselves?
• fiber_manual_recordWhat did they do for other people without being asked?
• fiber_manual_recordWhat made them laugh, and what made them laugh at themselves?
• fiber_manual_recordWhat did they teach you that you only understood later?
• fiber_manual_recordIf they walked in right now, what would they say?

Then call one or two other people who knew them and ask the same questions. You will get stories you were not there for, and the act of gathering them is its own small comfort. Pick the two or three that show the same person from different angles.

The first line is the one people freeze on. It does not need to be profound. The best openings are often the most direct. A few that work:

• fiber_manual_recordStart with the relationship. “My mother taught me how to make coffee, drive a stick shift, and apologize properly.”
• fiber_manual_recordStart with a single image. “If you ever drove past the house on a Saturday, you saw Dad in the garage, radio on, fixing something that wasn’t broken.”
• fiber_manual_recordStart with what they would have said. “Grandma would hate that we’re all this dressed up for her.”
• fiber_manual_recordStart plainly. “I’ve been trying to write this for three days, because no one page could hold who she was.”

If you cannot find the opening, write the rest first and let the opening reveal itself. It almost always does once the stories are down.

You may cry. Everyone expects it, and no one will think less of you for it. These practical steps make it far more likely you get all the way through.

• fiber_manual_recordPrint it large. Big font, double-spaced, on paper, not your phone. Number the pages in case you drop them.
• fiber_manual_recordRead it out loud three times before the day. Once alone you will hit the lines that break you. Knowing where they are means they will not ambush you at the podium.
• fiber_manual_recordMark your breathing. Add a slash where you will pause. When emotion rises, stop, breathe, take a sip of water. The room will wait. Silence reads as feeling, not failure.
• fiber_manual_recordHave a backup reader. Ask someone to sit in the front row, ready to step up and finish if you cannot. Just knowing they are there takes the pressure off.
• fiber_manual_recordSlow down. Nerves speed you up. Go slower than feels natural. The pauses are for the room to feel it with you.

A few things quietly weaken a eulogy. None are fatal, but the speech is stronger without them.

• fiber_manual_recordInside jokes that exclude the room. If only three people will understand it, it isolates everyone else. Save those for the reception.
• fiber_manual_recordA full chronology. Birth to death, year by year, belongs in the obituary. The eulogy picks moments, not milestones.
• fiber_manual_recordUnresolved conflict. A funeral is not the place to settle accounts. You can be honest about a complicated person without airing the hardest parts in public.
• fiber_manual_recordClichés on autopilot. “Words cannot express” and “in a better place” slide past people. One specific memory lands harder than any phrase you have heard at other funerals.
• fiber_manual_recordApologies for your writing. No “I’m not good at this.” You were asked because you are the right person. Just begin.