A Sacred Progression LLC

05/16/2026

05/06/2026

Someone asked me if I still feel anything when someone dies, or if I have become numb to death after all the years I’ve spent in end-of-life care, and all the goodbyes and deaths I have witnessed. The question caught me off guard, not because it was offensive, but because it reminded me of how misunderstood this work can be.

The truth is that I feel everything. I always have. What time and experience has changed is not the depth of my feeling, but my relationship to it. I’ve sat at the bedside of so many people as they take their last breaths and I have held hands, whispered final words, witnessed love, fear, surrender, and grace. These moments don’t numb you; they shape you and they soften you. And eventually, they bring you to a quiet place of peace with death itself.

I don’t sit in discomfort. I don’t rush to fix what can’t be fixed. I show up with presence, with reverence, and with a deep understanding that this, too, is part of life. When you’ve been in the room enough times, you stop trying to resist what’s happening, and you learn to honor it.

Making peace with death doesn’t mean I am detached or unfeeling, it means I have found a steadiness within myself, a kind of sacred pause that allows me to be fully present. I am not overwhelmed. I am not trying to make sense of it or avoid the weight of it. I am just there, grounded, bearing witness without judgment, without needing to rescue or retreat. It’s not about being numb, it’s about knowing exactly where I am and why it matters so much.

I have made peace with death; not just as a part of my work, but as a part of life. I accept its presence, both personally and professionally, and I am prepared for it in ways that don’t make me less emotional, only less afraid. My experience has gently shaped me, teaching me how to sit with those who are dying and those who are grieving, to hold space in the sacred stillness of a final breath. And while I’ve grown familiar with death, I hope I never grow numb to its significance. Each goodbye remains holy. Each moment, a quiet reminder of how deeply we are connected.

Even after all this time, I still believe that death deserves our presence, not our fear.

xo
Gabby

You can find this blog here:
https://www.thehospiceheart.net/post/death-deserves-our-presence-not-our-fear

04/24/2026

When I am dying, I don’t want the last sounds I hear to be machines beeping and alarms going off telling me what I already know, which is that my body is shutting down and I am dying.

I don’t want machines keeping me alive.
I don’t want machines feeding me.
I don’t want to feel the suffocation of the blood pressure cuff as it squeezes my arm every hour on the hour.
I don’t want IV’s stuck in my arms, or tubes down my throat.
I don’t want other people making decisions for me.

I don’t want to be in a room that isn’t mine, with a view of medical charts and notes stating when I had my last bowel movement, when my medications are due, or how many times I have been turned and repositioned, which by the way is obnoxious when you are dying and I definitely do not want that.

I don’t want fluorescent lights on above my head, forcing me to keep my eyes closed so they don’t burn from the glare.

I don’t want people walking into my room as though it is theirs and not mine.

I don’t want strangers telling me what to do or how to feel or treating me like I don’t have feelings.

I don't want people to talk over or about me as if I can't hear. I can hear and I will hear you!

I don’t want my family to wait day after day in a stark hospital room knowing there is nothing else anyone can do but wait.
This is not how I want to die.
This is not how I want the people who love me to see me die.

I have written down everything that is important to me so that none of the above ever occurs.
I have listed where I want to be, who I want there, what music I want to hear, how I want to be cared for, what I want to wear, how I want my symptoms managed, and to what extent I want people to go to keep me alive.

When I am dying, I want my wishes honored, my voice heard, and my death peaceful.
I want this for you too!

Please write down your wishes and share them with the people you love.
Have the conversation.
Talk to your family and friends.
I promise you… it won’t happen sooner because you talked about it.

xo
Gabby
www.thehospiceheart.net

My book “The Conversation” is a great way to get the conversation started.
https://a.co/d/5kDTiSn

My class “Your End-of-Life Wishes”
can be found here:
https://www.thehospiceheart.net/your-end-of-life-wishes

You can find this blog here:
https://www.thehospiceheart.net/post/when-i-am-dying

04/23/2026

This poem is born from reflection on all the love I’ve seen and the difficult goodbyes we sometimes must face. Our memories often feel like unwritten love letters, silent messages that continue to play in our minds and hearts long after someone has gone. When you revisit these memories, when you re-read those unspoken words, you are gifted with a gentle moment in time, a reminder of how much love was shared and how deeply you were loved. It is a tender reminder that, even in absence, love endures.

It started gently...
not with fireworks, but with something easy.
A look that lingered,
a feeling that felt safe.
Love showed up slowly,
in morning coffee, shared blankets,
and the way one person always waited for the other to walk through the door.

The memories live in the smallest things now...
a scent, a song, a place you haven’t been in years.
They return like soft echoes,
reminding you of what it was to belong to someone,
to be part of something quietly beautiful.
You may not remember every detail,
but you remember how it felt to be loved like that.

Over time, it becomes the story you hold close...
the first kiss that made the world pause,
the last one that held on just a little too long
or not long enough.
You find ways to speak of them,
without saying their name,
as if telling the story keeps a part of them here,
woven into your every day.

And when the final breath is taken...
it doesn’t erase what was shared,
The love remains, tucked inside you
steady, unshaken.
It becomes the letter you never had to write,
because your life together was the ink.
And long after goodbye,
it is still being written.

xo
Gabby

You can find this poem here:
https://www.thehospiceheart.net/post/the-love-letter

04/23/2026

Love doesn't end; it just transforms. When we stop trying to "move on," we finally give ourselves permission to carry that love forward instead. 🤍

04/22/2026

When we care for a loved one at the end of their life, our own lives often go on standby.
It’s a quiet transition where your own needs, hobbies, and routines are set aside to make room for a final journey.
Setting your life aside creates a unique set of challenges once that person is gone.
Have you experienced this?

04/09/2026

I am often asked whether I experience my own grief while watching others anticipate and go through theirs. The answer is yes. Anyone who witnesses someone navigating the reality of losing a loved one feels something. For me, it often awakens memories of my own losses.

Whenever I am at the bedside of someone with a dying parent, I ache a little inside. I am envious of their relationship because I didn’t have that. When both of my parents died, I was across the room from them, unsure what to do, what to say, or even how to feel.

Saying goodbye to a sibling brings its own waves of grief. Watching someone else in that moment often triggers my tears, a reminder of the deep ache I still carry for my sister and brother. But the truth is, any time I witness someone saying goodbye, I feel something, and I carry it with me when I leave.

How do I process that? Over time, I created a ritual that has become essential to my self-care, a way to honor what I feel and to release it safely.

I call it my grief bowl. It lives on my table at home, waiting for me at the end of a difficult day. It contains hearts of all kinds; metal, glass, crystal, clay, wood, pewter, each one gifted to me, each one meaningful.

When I return from a day at the bedside, I empty the hearts onto the table. I take them out one at a time. I think about the people I was with, their last breaths, the love and ache in the room, and the lessons I carry with me. I send comfort to those I witnessed saying goodbye, and I honor myself with the same. Because self-compassion is not optional; it is necessary. It has taken me a long time to understand that.

If I do this, the weight lifts. Self-care is mandatory, especially in the work I do. Anyone who sits with the dying, comforts those saying goodbye, or holds space for grief must be cared for with equal devotion. Creating a ritual, something tangible, and something sacred, helps us return to the work again and again without losing ourselves.

For me, it is my grief bowl. It comforts me, grounds me, and allows me to do this work day after day.

Whether you work in end-of-life care or navigate your own loss, please be gentle with yourself. Honor your heart. Honor your body. You deserve that tenderness.

xo
Gabby

You can find this blog here:
https://www.thehospiceheart.net/post/the-grief-bowl

03/16/2026

02/11/2026

If you or someone you know is looking for support, guidance, or practical tools for navigating grief, Roberts of Ocala and community partners are hosting a full day of learning with Dr. Alan Wolfelt.

Both sessions offer thoughtful guidance rooted in Dr. Wolfelt’s compassionate approach to grief and loss. Registration is free, but seating is limited. Early sign-up is encouraged.