How to Write a Eulogy That Honors Someone's Life

When my dad died, I was asked to write his eulogy. I had three days and no idea what I was doing.

I wrote about his achievements. His career. The awards he won. It was accurate and completely wrong.

Then, the night before the funeral, I started over. I wrote about how he made terrible puns at inappropriate times. How he cried at car commercials. How he kept a drawer full of birthday cards from people he'd lost touch with because "you never know when you might want to remember."

That eulogy made a room full of grieving people laugh and cry. It felt like him.

Here's what I wish I'd known before I started.

The Achievement Trap

Most eulogies sound like LinkedIn profiles. Education, career highlights, major life events, survived by...

This isn't wrong, exactly. But it's not a eulogy—it's an obituary read aloud.

A eulogy should make people feel like they're in the presence of the person again, even for a moment. That happens through specific details, not accomplishments.

The Details That Matter

Think about how this person was uniquely themselves:

• How did they laugh? (My dad snorted)
• What were their quirks? (He alphabetized his spice rack but couldn't find his car keys)
• What phrases did they repeat? ("That's show business")
• What made them mad? Happy? Confused?
• What did they do when no one was watching?

These details are more powerful than any achievement because they're irreplaceable. Only the people who loved them know these things.

The Structure That Works

After helping others with eulogies, I've found this structure works consistently:

Opening: Acknowledge the moment. You're here because someone important died. It's okay to name that directly.

The essence: One or two sentences that capture who they were at their core. Not what they did—who they were.

Three stories: Specific moments that illustrate that essence. These should be small and vivid. The audience doesn't need the full context—they need the feeling.

What they gave us: Not their possessions. The lessons, the love, the ways they changed how you see the world.

Closing: How you'll carry them forward. This isn't about you—it's about keeping them present.

Total length: 5-10 minutes. Shorter is usually better.

A Story vs. A Summary

A summary: "My father was a generous man who always helped others."

A story: "When I was twelve, our neighbor's car broke down. Dad spent his entire Saturday fixing it. I asked him why—we barely knew the guy. He said, 'Because he needs help and I know how to help.' That was his whole philosophy in nine words."

The story does what the summary claims to do. It shows generosity instead of announcing it.

Permission to Be Human

You don't have to pretend the person was perfect.

Some of the best eulogies I've heard acknowledged complexity: "She could be stubborn. God, she was stubborn. But that same stubbornness is why she beat cancer twice."

You're not speaking ill of them. You're being honest about a whole person. The people who loved them already know their flaws—pretending they didn't exist feels false.

Humor Is Allowed

I worried that including funny stories about my dad would be disrespectful. The opposite was true.

The room needed to laugh. Laughter was part of who he was. Leaving out the funny stories would have been leaving out something essential.

The rhythm that works: story that makes people laugh, moment of sincerity, story that makes people cry, another laugh. Let people breathe between the heavy parts.

Reading vs. Speaking

Write it out completely. Practice it multiple times. Then, when you deliver it, let yourself look up from the page.

You'll probably cry at some point. That's okay. Pause. Take a breath. Keep going. Nobody expects you to be composed—they expect you to be present.

If you're worried about getting through it, ask someone to stand nearby who can take over if needed. Just knowing that backup exists helps.

The Night-Before Panic

If you're staring at a blank page the night before, start here:

1. Write down five things about them that made you smile
2. Write down one thing they taught you
3. Write down one moment you'll never forget
4. Connect those into something that flows
5. Read it aloud and see what feels true

You don't need to be eloquent. You need to be honest.

What You're Really Doing

A eulogy isn't about summarizing a life. It's about giving people permission to grieve together.

You're creating a moment where everyone in the room shares something: memories of this person, and the pain of losing them. Your words are the container for that shared experience.

The best eulogies I've heard weren't beautifully written. They were genuinely felt.

What I'd Tell Myself Then

If I could go back to those three days before my dad's funeral, I'd say this:

Stop trying to capture everything. Capture one thing—the truest thing about who he was. Then tell a few stories that show it.

The people in that room don't need a comprehensive history. They need to remember why they loved him. Give them that, and you've done your job.

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