How Do You Write a Eulogy That Honours Both the Person Who Died and Those Left Behind?

When people write a eulogy for a funeral or cremation, they usually ask themselves: what should I say?

But perhaps that is not the first question.

The first question is: who am I really speaking for?

You are speaking to someone who can no longer answer. You are talking about someone who meant something different to every person in the room. And at the same time, you bring yourself, your memories and your grief into the speech.

At the end of this article, you can read both an original eulogy and the fully rewritten version. To protect the privacy of those involved, I call the person who died Bart. Other names have been replaced by their relationship to him.

A good eulogy makes the person who died recognisable through a few concrete memories. You speak from your own experience, distinguish facts from interpretations and leave room for the memories of other mourners. You do not need to hide someone’s difficult sides, but you do need to understand why you want to mention them at this particular moment.

Note: For a workplace farewell, read how to give a farewell speech for an employee or colleague who is leaving

When a Eulogy Tries to Say Too Much

I recently read a eulogy someone had written for his brother-in-law. We will call him Bart.

The writer was not struggling to find words. There were simply too many of them.

Thirty years of love, loyalty, arguments, grief, humour, alcohol, distrust, family problems and beautiful memories had found their way into one speech.

Almost everything he had written was probably true for him.

Yet as I read, I slowly watched Bart disappear.

The speech did not only describe who Bart had been. The writer also tried to explain his behaviour, understand old conflicts and establish what he believed had gone wrong.

That is understandable. When someone dies, it can easily feel as though this is your last chance to say everything one more time.

But the last opportunity to say something is not automatically the right moment to say everything.

So I created a second version.

Not to make Bart seem better than he was. I wanted to reconsider who or what each sentence was meant to serve.

Four Perspectives in Every Eulogy

A eulogy is never only about the person who died.

Four perspectives are always present:

• You as the speaker.

• The person you are speaking about.

• The facts and circumstances.

• The people listening to you.

Those four perspectives do not need equal space. But the speech changes when one perspective overwhelms everything else.

A personal memory can make someone visible. That same memory can also become mainly about the speaker.

A fact can provide necessary context. It can also be used to prove something after all.

An honest statement can make someone recognisable. But honesty can also become a judgement that can no longer be answered.

And a room full of mourners can recognise the person in your words. Or they can feel that your version of the person who died is being presented as the only correct one.

1. How Much of Yourself Belongs in a Eulogy?

A eulogy can and should be personal. Without you in it, it can quickly become a generic description that could have been delivered by anyone.

You may talk about what someone meant to you. What you experienced together. What you miss. What you are grateful for and perhaps even what you struggled with.

But talking about yourself in a eulogy should serve a purpose.

It should make the relationship or the other person more visible.

In the original speech, the writer spoke extensively about his divorce, what other people had done to him and how badly he had felt. In the second version, only the essence remained:

After my divorce, I was completely broken. You stayed beside me.

The divorce is still there. But the attention immediately shifts to Bart.

The speaker then recalls how Bart got on his bicycle and went looking for him because he was worried that something might have happened.

What the speaker went through is relevant because it reveals what Bart did.

That is an important difference.

You can place yourself at the centre of a speech about someone else. Or you can use yourself as a witness to who that person was for you.

One simple question can help:

When I say this about myself, does it make the other person more visible, or does it mainly make my own story bigger?

2. How Do You Show Who Someone Really Was?

At a funeral, we want to honour someone. That easily leads to words such as loving, caring, loyal, special and unforgettable.

Those words may be sincere. But they do not yet show us who someone was.

A memory usually does that better.

You can say someone was caring. You can also describe how he got on his bicycle and went looking for you because he was worried that you might not be safe.

You can say someone was helpful. You can also describe how he carefully repositioned your mother on her deathbed, despite everything that had happened between them.

You can say someone was stubborn. You can also describe how, during your first meeting, he looked at the aquarium background you were building and immediately knew you were doing it completely wrong.

For a moment, that person enters the room again.

That is what stories can do. An adjective tells us what to think about someone. A concrete memory allows us to experience that person for ourselves.

Honouring someone does not mean mentioning only their best qualities. People often recognise their father, mother, partner, friend or colleague in the combination of what was beautiful and what was difficult.

That is why the rewritten speech says:

Protecting you was how you showed your love. Perhaps not always subtly, but subtlety was never particularly high on your list of favourite qualities anyway.

Bart does not suddenly become an easy person. His lack of subtlety is still there. But it is connected to the way he loved.

Honouring someone is not the same as idealising them.

You honour someone when you make them recognisable without reducing them to your judgement.

3. What Is a Fact and What Is Your Truth?

In an emotional speech, facts, memories and interpretations can easily become entangled.

That Bart got on his bicycle to look for someone is an event.

That he did so because he was loyal is the meaning the speaker gives to that event.

That Bart and his wife argued may be a fact.

Why they argued, which patterns were behind those arguments and who was responsible for what are already interpretations.

The original speech included statements about being spoiled, being unable to accept criticism, becoming trapped in patterns and seeing fewer and fewer ways to escape them.

The writer may genuinely have experienced Bart that way. But his experience is not automatically the complete truth about Bart.

That distinction matters, especially when the person you are talking about can no longer respond.

You can say:

This is how I knew you.

That is different from saying:

This is who you were.

The first sentence leaves room for other experiences. The second turns your experience into a final verdict.

Difficult facts can also belong in a eulogy. Sometimes an illness, addiction, conflict or difficult period cannot be left out without creating a dishonest story.

But a fact belongs in the speech only when it helps people understand the person, the relationship or the farewell.

Speaking honestly does not mean that every thought that feels true needs to be spoken aloud. It means distinguishing between an observation, your feelings and the meaning you give them. That distinction is also central to nonviolent communication and speaking from your own experience.

The question is therefore not only whether something is true.

The question is also:

Why do I want everyone to hear this particular fact today?

4. How Do You Consider the People Listening?

Everyone at a funeral is saying goodbye to someone different.

A partner is saying goodbye to the person they loved. A child to a parent. A colleague to someone they worked with for years. A brother or sister to someone who existed in their life long before many of the other people present knew them.

All those people have their own memories. Sometimes they will immediately recognise the person in your story. Sometimes they experienced a completely different side of them.

You do not honour the listeners by speaking on their behalf. You honour them by leaving room for their own relationship with the person who died.

That is why this sentence from the second version matters:

Everyone here will have their own memories of you.

And later:

My Bart is the man who stood up for his wife. The man who adored their dog. The man who did not abandon me after my divorce.

The speaker does not claim to know who Bart ultimately was.

He tells us who Bart was to him.

No one in the room has to abandon their own memories to listen to the speech.

Good communication is not only about clearly saying what you mean. It is also about understanding what your words may do to someone else. That applies in a business conversation, but perhaps even more when love, loss and grief are so close together. In the art of effective communication, I write more about that responsibility between speaker and listener.

At a funeral, you are given a platform for your story.

But the room does not belong only to you.

The Speaker’s Position Determines the Speech

The biggest difference between the original and rewritten eulogies is not only their length or wording.

The speaker takes a different position.

In the first version, he sometimes becomes a relative, prosecutor, defender, psychologist and historian all at once. He tries to explain Bart and the people around him.

In the second version, he mainly becomes a witness.

He describes what he experienced with Bart. He uses concrete memories to show what Bart meant to him. He acknowledges Bart’s difficult sides without delivering a final judgement. And he leaves the other people present room for their own Bart.

Version one wants us to understand Bart.

Version two allows us to meet him.

The First Version Does Not Have to Be Wrong

Perhaps the original speech was necessary before the second could be written.

Before deciding what to say at a funeral, you may first need to write down everything inside you.

The anger. The disappointment. The questions that will never be answered. The things you blamed someone for and the words you never said.

That first text can belong entirely to you.

Then comes a different question:

Does everything I needed to write also need to be heard by everyone else?

Some sentences help you say goodbye. Other sentences help the people in the room say goodbye.

They are not always the same sentences.

Leaving something out does not mean denying it.

You are simply giving a feeling a different place.

A Simple Structure for a Personal Eulogy

There is no fixed formula for writing a good eulogy. But a simple structure can help.

Begin With a Recognisable Image

Open with a moment, statement, object or characteristic that immediately brings the person into the room.

In this speech, it is the *Fuck Tis* T-shirt and the expectation that Bart would probably have appreciated such an inappropriate choice.

Explain What Made Your Relationship Special

You do not need to explain your entire history. Describe what this person specifically meant in your life.

Choose Two or Three Concrete Memories

Do not search for memories that prove someone was perfect. Choose moments that reveal their character.

Allow Something of the Difficult Side to Remain

A funeral does not need to become a canonisation. A stubborn habit, conflict or shortcoming can make someone more recognisable when mentioned without settling old scores.

Leave Room for Other People’s Memories

Make it clear that you are sharing your version of this person, not the only possible version.

End With One Image

Do not try to summarise an entire life. Leave people with one image they can carry with them.

In the rewritten speech, that image is the dog who may be waiting for Bart behind a door.

And Bart, who will probably explain how the door should have been hung before he has even properly stepped through it.

Five Questions to Ask Before Delivering the Eulogy

Read your speech once more and ask yourself:

• Am I saying something about myself because it makes the other person visible?

• Am I describing what I experienced, or am I presenting my experience as the complete truth?

• Do these facts help people understand this person, or am I still trying to prove something?

• Am I leaving room for people who had a different relationship with them?

• What feeling or image will remain after I have spoken my final sentence?

A eulogy does not need to tell everything to be true.

You do not have to make someone appear better than they were. Nor do you need to carry everything that still hurts onto the stage with you.

You may tell people who this person was to you.

As long as you remember that you are speaking to someone who can no longer answer, in front of people who must continue living with what you say.

The Original Version

The original version is included in full below. The difficult passages reveal how love, grief, anger, interpretation and the need to explain someone can all find their way into a single text.

Without those passages, it might appear that the rewritten version has simply become shorter and kinder. The real difference goes deeper. The speaker changes position, facts serve a different purpose and listeners are given more room for their own memories.

Do not read the original version as an example of how a eulogy should sound. Read it as the honest first text of someone still trying to understand what thirty years with another person meant to him.

---

There I am.

Wearing my *Fuck Tis* T-shirt.

I think you would probably have laughed at that.

Because if there was one thing you loved, it was a little sensation, a little commotion and, above all, a strong opinion.

And you certainly had strong opinions.

I discovered that when we first met.

I was at home in the shed building what must have been my five-hundredth aquarium background.

And you looked at it.

Almost immediately, you told me I was doing it completely wrong.

You knew straight away how it should be done.

That was my first encounter with Bart.

And in hindsight, perhaps it was the perfect introduction.

Because you did not exactly enter a room cautiously.

You were present.

You had an opinion.

And when you thought something was wrong, everyone heard about it.

But there was something else I saw from the beginning.

When you came into my sister’s life, you effectively took over the role my mother had held for years.

The protective umbrella over my sister.

Whether it was justified or not, you stood up for her.

Literally and figuratively.

At fairs, parties and everywhere else.

If something happened involving my sister, Bart stepped in.

And honestly, it sometimes drove her completely mad.

But you did it.

You chose her.

Just as my mother had always done.

And that was also the beginning of a very complicated history.

Because you and my sister were not exactly a calm couple.

You could love each other deeply.

And you could also make life incredibly difficult for one another.

You were both spoiled.

Not only with possessions, food or drink.

But also in the sense that you had both become accustomed to people gathering around you whenever life became difficult.

Criticism was not always easy to tolerate.

Feedback could feel like an attack.

And when you do not know what to do with criticism, you may become defensive, withdraw, get angry or look for someone else who tells you that you are right.

I saw that pattern in both of you.

And that was precisely what made your relationship so complicated.

But there was one fundamental difference between what I saw then and what I understood later.

Behind your behaviour was a great deal of pain.

And that pain continued to grow.

After my divorce, my relationship with you also changed.

I was completely broken.

I had become the victim of gossip and rumours and felt as though the entire world was judging me.

But you did something I have never forgotten.

You stayed beside me.

You listened to my story and essentially said:

This is not right.

While others had already formed their judgement, you continued asking questions.

And once you believed someone was being wronged, you went all in.

Not halfway.

Completely.

I remember one of my many walks during that period.

I was in such a bad place that you were afraid I might harm myself.

So you got on your bicycle.

This was before it had electric assistance.

And you came looking for me.

Literally.

Because you wanted to know where I was.

That is Bart.

That was you.

You could be incredibly difficult.

But when you believed someone was in danger, you acted.

And I never forgot that.

We developed a very intense bond during those years.

We talked for hours.

About my life.

About your life.

About my sister.

About work.

About relationships.

About things people do not normally discuss so easily.

You also told me things about your childhood that went very deep.

Things that had affected you for years.

I heard your version of your past.

And I want to be very clear today:

I heard your story and took it seriously.

But I was also there when you became increasingly stuck.

Shortly after my divorce, you lost your job.

My sister’s condition continued to deteriorate.

You were at home.

And suddenly, there was a great deal of space to look back at everything that had happened in your life.

You wanted answers.

You wanted to understand why things had happened as they had.

So you started searching.

You had always done that.

You could find information online in places a normal person would never think to look.

You investigated.

You searched.

You examined everything.

And sometimes you took that much too far.

But even that came from the same need:

To understand what was really happening.

During that period, I also tried to help you with your work.

I went with you to job interviews.

I sat beside you when you were nervous.

And I remember a video call with a manager.

My sister was sent upstairs because she was too emotional.

And I lay on the floor under the table with your dog while trying to whisper answers to difficult questions from the background.

Fortunately, we could laugh enormously about that afterwards.

Those are the memories I want to keep.

Not because everything was good.

But because they were real.

And your dog was always part of that.

She was not an ordinary dog to you and my sister.

She was your child.

The bond between you.

Your family.

And whenever I think of you and my sister, she is always there too.

But meanwhile, life became increasingly difficult.

Your drinking increased.

Your distrust increased.

Cameras appeared.

Even inside the refrigerator.

You wanted to know what was happening.

You wanted control.

You became increasingly suspicious.

The arguments with my sister became more intense.

Conflicts with neighbours and other people around you also escalated more frequently.

And slowly, I watched someone become increasingly trapped in his own life.

That may be what saddens me most about your final years.

Not only that you became ill.

But that you seemed to see fewer and fewer ways out of your own patterns.

And the same applies to my sister.

Looking back, I understand much better how you sometimes reinforced each other instead of helping each other.

You both had people around you who tried to protect you out of love.

My mother.

My sister’s friends.

Family.

People who wanted the best for you.

But sometimes protection can also become a wall.

And sometimes, when someone is constantly protected, they become less able to tolerate someone saying:

“Perhaps it is not only the other person’s fault.”

That is not a judgement.

It is what I have come to understand in hindsight.

And perhaps it is also why our own relationship could be so complicated.

We could become incredibly angry with each other.

But we did not remain trapped in that anger forever.

Later, we could sit opposite each other again.

Talk.

Look back.

And sometimes even laugh about what had happened.

Because we both knew that something else existed beneath the anger.

And I find that special.

Because despite everything, there was respect between us.

Perhaps precisely because we could affect each other so deeply.

And because we could tell each other things we could not share everywhere else.

There is one more image that may be the most remarkable of all to me.

My mother was on her deathbed.

You and she had been through more than enough together over the years.

At times, they could truly hate each other.

And yet you were the person who eventually helped her change position.

Not me.

I offered.

But you could do it better.

With your enormous body, you made sure my mother was lying comfortably.

And there you stood.

My brother-in-law.

The man with whom my mother had argued so many times.

The man who, at that moment, may have been better able to help her than her own son.

That is Bart.

And that is why I do not want to reduce you to your mistakes today.

But I will not deny them either.

You were a complicated person.

You could be dominant.

You could be stubborn.

You could cross boundaries.

You could antagonise people.

You could believe your own truth so strongly that there was barely any room left for another reality.

But you could also be loyal.

You could protect.

You could care.

You could give an enormous amount of love.

And you could be there when someone genuinely needed you.

That is the Bart I knew.

And that is why I also want to say something to everyone who knew you, in whatever way.

A person never consists of one story.

Neither did you.

Everyone here probably has their own Bart.

Bart from the past.

Bart from the family.

Bart from work.

Bart from the arguments.

Bart from the beautiful moments.

I knew a different Bart again.

I knew the Bart who tried to keep me standing after my divorce.

The Bart who went looking for me on his bicycle because he was afraid I might harm myself.

The Bart with whom I spoke about life for hours.

The Bart who trusted me with things I will never forget.

And also the Bart who eventually became so trapped that he no longer knew how to escape his own life.

I do not think any of us knows the complete story.

Perhaps you did not even know the complete story yourself.

And perhaps that is something we should all carry with us.

We sometimes think we know exactly what someone is like.

While in reality, we know only one part of that person.

I have had to learn that too.

And perhaps that is ultimately the greatest sadness.

So much was discussed.

So much was thought.

So much was assumed.

While sometimes people simply needed to talk to each other.

Fortunately, you and I did do that.

Not always.

Not always well.

But often enough to know that behind an angry Bart was also a sad Bart.

And behind a difficult Bart was also a Bart who desperately wanted to be seen.

I wish you had been able to see that much earlier yourself.

And that you could have found help that truly suited you.

I do not think you ever reached that point.

And that makes me sad.

Because despite everything that happened between people, despite everything you did wrong and everything others did to you, you remain part of my life.

Thirty years.

That does not disappear because someone dies.

I will continue to remember you.

As my brother-in-law.

As the man who knew I was doing it wrong when he saw my first aquarium background.

As the man who stood up for my sister.

As the man who adored your dog.

As the man who collected everything that was not nailed down.

As the man who had an opinion about absolutely everything.

As the man with whom I could have terrible arguments.

As the man with whom I could later walk through the same door again.

As the man who did not abandon me after my divorce.

As the man who came looking for me on his bicycle.

As the man who shared his deepest stories with me.

As the man who helped my mother on her deathbed.

As the man who eventually became increasingly lost himself.

And as the man who, despite everything, I miss today.

Bart,

I hope you have found peace now.

No more arguments.

No more fear.

No more searching.

No more control.

No more struggle.

And if a door opens somewhere on the other side, I especially hope your dog is waiting there.

Because honestly, I think she is the first one you would want to see.

Rest easy, you old bugger.

And thank you for those thirty years.

You were not easy.

But you were my brother-in-law, Bart.

Goodbye.

The Rewritten Version for the Funeral

There I am.

Wearing my *Fuck Tis* T-shirt.

I wondered whether this was really the right shirt to wear today. But then I thought: if anyone was likely to appreciate an inappropriate choice, it was you.

Because you loved a little sensation, some commotion and, above all, a strong opinion.

And you certainly had opinions.

I discovered that when we first met. I was at home in the shed building what must have been my five-hundredth aquarium background. You looked at it and almost immediately told me I was doing it completely wrong.

You did not even need much time to think about it.

That was my first encounter with Bart.

You did not enter a room cautiously. You were there. Big, outspoken and convinced of what you believed. No one around you had to wonder for long what you thought. Usually, everyone else knew before they had even decided what they thought themselves.

But behind that large presence, I saw someone who was deeply loyal to the people he loved.

When you came into my sister’s life, you stood up for her. Literally and figuratively. At fairs, parties and whenever you believed she needed you. Protecting her was how you showed your love. Perhaps not always subtly, but subtlety was never particularly high on your list of favourite qualities anyway.

When you chose someone, you chose them completely.

I experienced that myself.

After my divorce, I was completely broken. You stayed beside me. You listened to my story, asked questions and did not immediately pass judgement. When you believed someone needed you, you did not simply abandon them.

During one of my walks, you became worried that I might not be safe. So you got on your bicycle, back when it still had no electric assistance, and came looking for me. You did not just call or wait. You actually got on that bicycle to find out where I was.

That was you.

When it really mattered, you acted.

And Bart, in doing so, you also proved that you were perfectly capable of being athletic. You simply needed a sufficiently good reason.

During those years, we developed an intense bond. We talked for hours about life, work, relationships, family and everything occupying our minds. I discovered that this large man with his firm opinions was also someone who thought, felt and tried to understand why life unfolded as it did.

You wanted to know things. You could find information online in places Google itself probably did not know existed. When something occupied your mind, you investigated it. You did not let go until you believed you understood what was happening.

And once you believed you knew what was happening, the rest of the world had better arrive with some very strong arguments.

That persistence was part of you. I appreciated it and learned a great deal from you.

Precisely because you could appear so certain, I found it special that you also allowed me to see your insecurity. I remember trying to help you with your work. I will never forget lying under the table with your dog during a video call with a manager while trying to whisper answers to difficult questions.

I am still not sure whether that was the best career advice I have ever given.

But fortunately, we could laugh enormously about it later.

Your dog was always part of you and my sister. She was not an ordinary dog. She was your child, your family and a source of love and comfort. Whenever I think of the two of you, I see her walking between you. And I know how deeply you missed her.

And Bart, perhaps one of your finest qualities was that you did not reduce someone to one argument or one bad moment.

At times, we were both remarkably talented at arguing. We could each explain extremely well why the other person had got everything completely wrong. Sometimes several times, just in case the message had not been entirely clear the first time.

But afterwards, we could usually sit opposite each other again. We talked, looked back and sometimes even laughed about what had happened.

Beneath those clashes, something important remained: respect. We both knew that one argument did not mean that everything that had existed before it had suddenly disappeared.

Another image I will always carry with me is my mother on her deathbed. You and she had been through more than enough together over the years. Yet you were the person who eventually made sure she was lying comfortably.

Not me.

I offered, but you could do it better. With your large body, you helped her gently and made sure she was comfortable. At that moment, you simply did what needed to be done.

That was also you.

You could be present, loud and outspoken. But you could also care. You could protect. You could remain loyal when others stepped away. And when someone truly needed you, you were there.

Everyone here will have their own memories of you. Bart from the family. Bart from work. Bart from the past. Bart with his stories and his opinion about absolutely everything.

And of course, Bart who collected anything and everything. Probably because you were convinced it would all come in useful one day. The annoying thing was that sometimes you were actually right.

My Bart is the man who stood up for my sister. The man who adored their dog. The man who did not abandon me after my divorce. Who got on his bicycle to look for me. With whom I talked about life for hours. With whom I could argue fiercely and later laugh again. And the man who helped my mother when she could no longer help herself.

For thirty years, you were my brother-in-law. Thirty years of conversations, opinions, clashes, humour and memories. That does not disappear simply because someone is no longer here.

Bart, I hope you have found peace.

And if a door opens somewhere on the other side, I especially hope your dog is waiting there. Because honestly, I think she is the first one you would want to see.

Although I suspect that before you have even properly stepped inside, you will first explain how that door should have been hung.

Rest easy, you old bugger.

Thank you for those thirty years.