Why I Chose to Become an End-of-Life Doula

By Marie Stanfill, End-of-Life Doula at Touching Hearts at Home

At 26, I received a diagnosis that would change everything: stage 3 cervical cancer. I was also pregnant with my youngest daughter.

That moment split my life wide open.

I still remember the room spinning, the shock of the words. I walked into that appointment expecting reassurance—maybe a plan, maybe a little worry, but not this. Not while carrying new life inside me. In an instant, I went from planning a nursery to preparing for the unimaginable: the possibility of not surviving to meet my child.

Fear, when it’s that deep, isn’t loud. It’s silent. Heavy. It creeps into every breath, every thought. I laid awake most nights, one hand on my belly, whispering questions I couldn’t say aloud. Would I be here to see her smile? Would my older children remember my voice? Would I get to say goodbye on my own terms?

I was surrounded by care—skilled doctors, compassionate nurses, family, and friends. But there was a space no one could quite fill. I didn’t need more medical attention. I needed someone to walk with me through the unknown. Someone who could sit with me in the silence and say, “I see you.” Someone who could help me find peace, even while I was still clinging to life.

I didn’t know it at the time, but what I needed was an end-of-life doula.

Miraculously, I survived. My daughter survived. But the woman who walked away from that experience wasn’t the same one who walked in. Something deep shifted.

Surviving cancer—while growing a child—changed me. It taught me the sacredness of time, the weight of presence, and the beauty of simply holding space. It showed me that love and grief often walk hand-in-hand. That silence doesn’t always need to be filled. And that what we offer each other at the edge of life matters more than we’ll ever fully know.

That experience didn’t just leave me with perspective—it gave me purpose.

I became an end-of-life doula not because I chose it, but because it chose me.

Today, I sit with people and their families during life’s most vulnerable moments. I help open space for difficult conversations. I hold hands, wipe tears, and offer comfort that doesn’t ask for anything in return. I help people feel seen—not just as patients, but as whole human beings with stories, fears, and deep, abiding love.

This work isn’t about death. It’s about being present for life, in all its fragility and fullness.

Being a doula is not just something I do—it’s who I am. A reflection of the pain I’ve endured, the grace I’ve received, and the sacred responsibility I feel to walk with others through their hardest moments.

Because death isn’t the opposite of life—it’s part of it. And it deserves to be met with compassion, presence, and love.