Even though it doesn't take the pain away, it kind of normalises it.
Death doulas support families through end-of-life care by holding space for grief, explaining physical changes during dying, and helping with practical arrangements like funeral planning. The profession is growing rapidly with celebrity endorsements from Nicole Kidman and Ruby Wax, though the UK lacks regulation and mandatory training standards for practitioners.
- 114 death doulas joined End of Life Doula UK in 2025, a significant increase from previous years
- Death doulas charge between £25-£45 per hour, though some offer services free
- The UK has no regulation or mandatory training standards for death doulas
- Rita Ball has worked as a trained death doula in London for three years, supporting families and NHS care home volunteers
Death doulas, non-medical end-of-life companions, are gaining popularity in the UK and beyond, with 114 joining End of Life Doula UK in 2025. They provide emotional support, practical guidance, and help normalize the dying process for patients and families.
Rita Ball holds a hand as someone takes their last breath. It is, she says, absolutely raw—to be present for a life leaving the world. She has done this many times over the past three years, working as a trained death doula in London, a non-medical companion who sits with families and volunteers in NHS care homes through the final passage.
When people ask Ball what they are allowed to do as their loved one dies, she hears real relief in their voices when she tells them: yes, hold them. Kiss them. Play music. Talk to them. The permission itself seems to matter as much as the presence.
Death doulas, sometimes called soul midwives, have grown quietly but steadily over the past decade. In 2025 alone, 114 new doulas joined End of Life Doula UK—a sharp rise from previous years. The profession has begun to attract attention beyond the bereaved: Nicole Kidman and Ruby Wax have announced they are training to become end-of-life doulas, and Davina McCall says she plans to take it up when she retires. The work costs between £25 and £45 an hour, though some offer it freely.
Fanny Behrens, who lives in Devon, first contacted death doula Sarah Parker ten months before her husband died of cancer. She remembers sobbing in Parker's kitchen—and the profound relief of falling apart in front of someone who was neither family nor entangled in the situation, someone who could simply be there. Parker encouraged Behrens to ask her husband the hard questions: where did he want to be buried, what should his funeral look like. She also guided her through the practical weight of it all—contacting undertakers, registering the death, the small administrative cruelties that follow loss. And she reminded Behrens to eat, to sleep, not to disappear entirely into someone else's dying.
Parker explained to Behrens what happens to a body in its final days. The temperature drops. Breathing changes. Sometimes there is what doctors call a death rattle—a sound that can terrify people in the room if they have not been told to expect it. "There's something about being with someone who's very familiar with the process, who is matter-of-fact and at home with it and compassionate," Behrens says. "Even though it doesn't take the pain of it away, it kind of normalises it."
Emma Clare, chief executive of End of Life Doula UK, believes people have lost knowledge about ordinary death. Most people's understanding comes from films or sudden tragedy—not the slow, predictable arc of a body shutting down. By explaining what is coming, doulas unlock time that might otherwise be spent in fear. Krista Hughes, a soul midwife who works at a cancer charity, recalls a person who wanted to die in a garden but could not leave their bed. She brought pictures and lavender oil into the room, played the sound of birdsong, described a walk through lavender fields. "When someone is born they are born into loving hands," Hughes says, "and we hope they are able to die into loving hands."
The work extends beyond the moment of death. Ball has visited funeral homes on behalf of families, held memorial services, sat with the bereaved in the silence that follows. Other doulas hold death cafes—gatherings over tea and cake where people can talk openly about dying, a conversation most of us avoid until we have no choice.
Marian Krawczyk, a researcher in end-of-life care at the University of Glasgow, notes that the way people die has changed. Fewer die suddenly; more live for years with diseases that slowly limit them. People now expect to shape every aspect of their lives, including how they die. Death doulas can help with that shaping. But the profession remains unregulated in the UK, with no mandatory training standards. Some believe doulas should be woven into the health system; others think they should stay separate. Questions linger about cost and the potential for exploitation of vulnerable people. Yet Krawczyk observes that end-of-life care remains a postcode lottery—available to some, absent for others. Doulas, for now, help fill those gaps. Dr Paul Perkins of Sue Ryder, a palliative care charity, puts it simply: people who are dying should be helped to have the best quality of life possible, so they can spend time with the people who bring them joy. The question is how to make that happen, and for whom.
Citas Notables
When someone is born they are born into loving hands, and we hope they are able to die into loving hands.— Krista Hughes, soul midwife at the Mulberry Centre
There's something about being with someone who's very familiar with the process, who is matter-of-fact and at home with it and compassionate—that really helps.— Fanny Behrens, on her experience with death doula Sarah Parker
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
What exactly is the difference between what a death doula does and what a palliative care nurse does?
A nurse manages the medical side—pain, symptoms, the body's needs. A doula is there for the emotional and practical landscape. She might sit with someone's fear, help them ask questions they've been avoiding, explain what's coming so it feels less like a shock. She's not medical, but she's familiar with the process in a way most people aren't.
So it's permission, in a way.
Exactly. People don't know what they're allowed to do. Can I touch them? Can I cry? Can I play their favorite song? A doula says yes to all of it. She normalizes something that feels completely foreign.
Why is this growing now, do you think? Why not ten years ago?
People are living longer with serious illness. We've lost the old knowledge—our grandmothers knew how to sit with dying. Now most of us have never seen it. And we're isolated. Family is scattered. So when it comes, we're alone with it.
But there's no regulation. Couldn't someone just call themselves a death doula tomorrow?
Yes. That's the real tension. The work is genuine and needed, but there's no standard, no oversight. It could attract people with good intentions and people with none.
What happens after someone dies? Does the doula just leave?
Not always. Some sit with the bereaved for months. Some help plan the funeral. Some just hold space in that silence after—which Ball says can be enormous. The grief doesn't end when the person does.
And the cost—£25 to £45 an hour—that's not nothing for a grieving family.
It's not. That's why some offer it free. And why Krawczyk says it's a postcode lottery. If you have money and live in the right place, you can access this. If you don't, you're on your own.