How to Write a Eulogy

Writing a eulogy is one of the hardest things you'll ever do, and you're usually doing it while grieving, sleep-deprived, and overwhelmed. There's no perfect eulogy — but there is a way to honor someone's life that feels true, that gives the room permission to grieve and to smile, and that says what needs to be said even when your voice shakes. This guide won't make it easy. But it will give you a path through it.

The purpose of a eulogy

A eulogy isn't a biography. It's not a chronological account of someone's life — where they were born, where they went to school, what they did for work. Those are facts, and facts don't make people cry or laugh or nod in recognition. A eulogy is a portrait. It's the specific way they answered the phone, the thing they always said at dinner, the look they gave you when you were being ridiculous. Your job is to put that person in the room one more time.

How to gather your material

Before you write a single word, spend 20 minutes just remembering. Not organizing, not outlining — remembering. What did they smell like? What was their go-to meal? What made them laugh until they wheezed? What did they say that you still hear in your head? Write down every fragment. Then call two or three people who loved them and ask: "What's your favorite story?" You'll hear things you forgot and things you never knew, and some of them will be exactly what the eulogy needs.

Structure for a eulogy

Open with who you are and your relationship. Then share two or three stories — not summaries, but scenes. "She once..." is a powerful way to start. Each story should reveal a different facet of who they were: their humor, their generosity, their stubbornness, their love. Close with what they meant to you and what they'd want for the people in the room. If they were funny, end with something that would make them laugh. If they were tender, end with something that would make them proud.

It's okay to be imperfect

Your voice will shake. You might cry. You might lose your place. None of that matters. The people in that room aren't grading your performance — they're grateful that someone stood up and tried. If you need to pause, pause. If you need to take a breath, take it. The silence isn't awkward — it's shared. And if you can't finish, that's okay too. Someone will be there to take the page and read the rest.

Quick tips

• Write it out fully and bring the printed copy — don't rely on memory during grief
• Include at least one moment that will make the room smile or laugh
• Speak to the person, not just about them — "You always..." is powerful
• Keep it to 5-7 minutes. Grief makes time feel different; a timer helps
• Read it aloud to someone beforehand. You need to know where your voice will break
• It doesn't have to be perfect. It has to be true

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