Of all the jobs that fall to a grieving family, writing the eulogy is one of the strangest. You're processing the worst thing that's happened to you while simultaneously trying to summarise an entire life in five minutes — for an audience that includes everyone they ever knew. It's no wonder most people put it off until the night before.
Here's a working framework for getting it done, well, without making yourself ill.
How long should it be?
Five to seven minutes when read aloud — that's roughly 700-1000 words on the page. Shorter is better than longer. People always think they want a long eulogy and they don't.
If two or three people are speaking, three minutes each is plenty. If only one person is speaking, ten minutes is the absolute upper limit, and even then you'll feel it.
The structure that works
A good eulogy has three things, in this order:
- Who they were — the facts of the life, briefly. Born, raised, family, work, the headlines.
- What they were like — the texture, the personality, the stories. This is the bulk of it.
- What we'll miss / what we're left with — a short closing thought.
That's it. You don't need a Greek tragedy. You need a portrait, sketched with love.
1. Who they were (90 seconds)
Just the headlines. Not a CV — a brief biographical context that places the person in time.
Margaret was born in Manchester in 1942, the second of four children. She trained as a nurse at the Royal Infirmary in 1961, met John on a holiday to Blackpool the same year, and they were married for fifty-eight years. They moved to Wembley in 1973 and never left. She had two children, Sarah and Michael, and four grandchildren who were the centre of her world.
That's roughly 80 words. It tells you everything you need to know to understand what comes next.
2. What they were like (4-5 minutes)
This is the heart of the eulogy. Don't try to capture everything — pick three or four things that were absolutely, unmistakably them, and tell a small story about each.
The trick is to be specific. Vague ("she was a wonderful, generous person who lit up every room") tells us nothing. Specific ("she once made me sit at the table for two hours because I wouldn't eat a sprout, and forty years later I still hate sprouts and I still loved her for it") tells us everything.
Try this exercise. Sit down with a blank page and finish these sentences. Don't edit, just write the first thing that comes:
- "The thing about [Name] was…"
- "You always knew where you stood with [Name] because…"
- "They drove me mad when…"
- "They were the only person who would…"
- "My favourite memory of them is…"
- "What people don't know about them is…"
You'll have ten minutes of raw material. Pick the three or four bits that make you smile, or that capture something true. Those become the eulogy.
3. What we'll miss / what we're left with (60 seconds)
End with what stays. Not "we'll miss her terribly" — everybody knows that. Something more specific:
We won't have her at Sunday lunch any more. We won't have her telling us off for not wearing a coat. We won't have her squeezing our hands at the moments that matter. But every grandchild she had carries a bit of her in them — Sarah's youngest has her exact laugh, James cooks like she did, and we'll all be passing on her terrible jokes for the rest of our lives. She isn't gone; she's just spread out a bit.
Things to leave OUT
- The cause of death. Unless it's central to who they were (a long illness they fought publicly, for example), it doesn't belong here.
- Family disagreements. Even if you and your sister haven't spoken in fifteen years and that's relevant to the story, today is not the day. Save it.
- Anything you might regret. If you're in two minds about a story, leave it out. There's always next time. Except that there isn't, but it'll feel that way.
- Inside jokes only three people will get. You're speaking to a whole room. If a joke needs explaining, cut it.
- Religious certainty (unless you have it). "She's looking down on us now" is fine if you mean it. If you don't, find something else.
- The CV. Awards, job titles, qualifications. The headlines are fine in section 1; the full list belongs nowhere.
Practical tips for delivering it
- Print it in big text — at least 14pt, double-spaced. You won't be able to focus on small text on the day.
- Mark the breaths. Where do you want to pause? Where might you cry? A pencil mark in the margin is enough.
- Read it aloud at home, twice. You'll catch sentences that don't work in the mouth and edit them down.
- Have a backup. Give a copy to whoever's sitting next to you. If you can't get through it, they can pick up where you left off. Funeral directors are also used to stepping in if needed — ask yours.
- Bring water and tissues. Pause when you need to. The audience is on your side.
- It's OK to break down. Crying during a eulogy isn't a failure. Most rooms find it more meaningful, not less. Take a breath, take a sip, carry on when you're ready.
If you genuinely can't do it
You don't have to. Real options:
- Ask someone else to read it for you. A family friend, the celebrant, the funeral director themselves. The words are still yours; the voice is borrowed.
- Split it. Two or three short tributes from different people often work beautifully — and removes the pressure of any one person carrying the whole thing.
- Have the celebrant deliver it. Civil and humanist celebrants often write the eulogy themselves based on a long conversation with the family. They're skilled at this. There's no shame in handing it over.
One last thing
You will not say everything you wanted to say. You will leave things out. You will think of the perfect line three days later in the shower. That's normal and unavoidable. The eulogy is one moment in a long process of remembering — there will be other times to say the things you didn't get out today.
Start tonight, even just with the blank page and the prompts above. The first sentence is the worst part. After that you'll find your way.