Eulogy Examples for a Daughter
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What is different about writing for a daughter
Listen to the words that arrive at the door with the casseroles: caring, selfless, always put everyone else first, the glue that held us together. They are usually true and they are all descriptions of what she did for other people. Men get eulogized for what they built and women get eulogized for who they looked after, and the woman herself goes missing somewhere in the middle. The correction is simple and it is not sentimental. For every sentence about who she cared for, give one about what she was good at, what she earned, what she wanted, what she was ambitious about, what she was funny about.
If she was a mother, some of this eulogy is not for the room. It is for a child who is four years old, sitting in the second row not understanding much, who will be handed a recording at nineteen. Write one paragraph deliberately for that person. Not a message about heaven. Concrete things: what she was like with them, one thing she actually said, one thing she wanted for them. Tell the room you are doing it, and the room will let you.
Daughters are also, very often, the ones who drove to the appointments and kept the calendar and knew which pills. If you are her parent and she was your caregiver, your instinct will be to list what she did for you, and everyone will nod, and it will be a thin portrait of a whole woman. Say the logistics once, properly, so it is on the record. Then spend the rest of your time on who she was when she was off duty.
If she was sick for a long time, remember that your family has been living with it for two years and most of the room has not. You do not owe anyone the medical detail. Avoid the battle language: it quietly implies there was a version where she tried harder and won, and a good many women now ask their families in advance not to use it. “She was sick for two years and four months, and she was funny for most of it” tells the truth and protects everybody.
Complete eulogies
Each of these is written to be read aloud. Everyone in them is invented, so take whichever fits and replace the specifics. The shape is what you are borrowing.
Two and a half minutes, from a father for a daughter of twenty-nine
≈2½ minutes · 312 words · spoken by her father
Naomi Frances Aldritch. My daughter. Twenty-nine years old.
I’m her dad. I’m Bill.
People have been very kind to us this week, and nearly all of them have said the same word, which is that Naomi was caring. She was. She would have hated it as a summary, so I am going to tell you what she actually did.
She was a large-animal vet. She could put her arm inside a cow up to the shoulder at two in the morning in February, in the rain, in a barn out on the Weir Road, and then get back in the truck, eat a gas station sandwich, and drive to the next one. She graduated third in her class. She was one of four women in a practice of eleven. She did not talk about that much, but I noticed she cut her hair the year she started.
She was ambitious, and I want that word said out loud at a funeral for a young woman. She wanted her own practice by thirty-five. She had a spreadsheet for it. She showed it to her mother and me in October, at our kitchen table, with a pen in her hand, and she was not asking our permission.
She swore a great deal. She drove far too fast. She kept a horse she could not really afford called Custard, who is fine, and who goes to Anne’s place on Saturday.
She had a way of ending a phone call. She would say, “All right. Love you. Bye bye bye.” All three of them, fast, like she was already hanging up. And she was already hanging up.
That is who we lost. Not a nice girl. A very good vet, who was also kind, in that order, because that is the order she would have put it in.
All right, Naomi. Love you. Bye bye bye.
Five minutes, from a mother for a daughter of forty-one who left two small children
≈5 minutes · 644 words · spoken by her mother
My name is Loretta Vance. Kit was my daughter. Katherine Jane. She was forty-one.
I am going to speak for about five minutes, and I want to tell you now that the last part of this is not for you. The last part is for Wes and Nora, who are seven and four, and who are sitting in the front row with their dad. Somebody is recording this. They will hear it a long time from now. So I am going to say that part carefully, and the rest of you can let it go past you.
First, though. Kit’s life.
She was born in the spring of 1985 and she came out furious. She stayed furious for about eleven weeks, and after that she was the most cheerful person I have ever lived with, for forty-one years.
She went to Cabot High School and then to State, and she came out of it with an accounting degree, which she chose on purpose, because she said she wanted work that could not be taken away from her. She was twenty-two years old when she said that to me. I have thought about it a great deal this week.
She was at Harrow and Bly for nine years and then she went out on her own, and for the last decade she did the books for about sixty small businesses in this county. The bakery. The dance school. Two of the churches. If you ever wondered why the fire department’s fundraiser suddenly started making money, that was Kit, doing it for nothing, at her own kitchen table, at eleven at night.
She married Andrew in 2014, at the lake, in the rain, cheerfully.
She was sick for two years and four months. I am not going to use the word battle, because she asked me not to. She said it made it sound like there was a version where she tried harder and won. What she did was harder than a battle and it sounded less heroic. She got up. She went to the appointments. She kept working until March. She kept a folder on her computer called Instructions, which she made me look at in January, and which I could not get through at the time, and which is the reason none of us has had to guess about anything this week.
She was funny about all of it, right up close to the end. She told her sister she was sick of being an inspiration to strangers at the pharmacy.
Now. Wes and Nora.
Your mother loved you two more than she loved anything, and I want to be specific about that instead of just saying it.
She knew exactly what each of you was afraid of, and she never once made fun of either of you for it.
She read to you every night she was able to. On the nights she was not able to, she had your dad hold up the phone so she could listen to him do it.
Nora, she said you were the funniest person in the house.
Wes, she said you were the kindest boy she had ever met, and she said it to other people when you were not in the room, which is how you can know it was true.
She was not frightened at the end, and she did not want either of you to be frightened either. She told me to tell you that she got to be your mom, and that this was the good luck of her whole life.
That is the part that mattered.
Andrew, we have got you. And everyone in this room, please look after Andrew for longer than two weeks. Two weeks is when people stop.
Thank you all for coming. Kit would have made a joke about the turnout and then cried in the car.
Ninety seconds, from an elderly mother for a daughter who had been her caregiver
≈90 seconds · 178 words · spoken by her mother
I’m Peggy. I am eighty-six. Fran was my oldest.
I have been to a great many funerals and I never expected to be at this one.
Fran drove me to everything for the last nine years. Doctors, church, the pharmacy, the license office twice. I know it took her whole Thursdays. I know she never once let on. And I know I said thank you too casually, because I thought there was plenty of time to say it properly.
So I am saying it properly. Frances Marie, thank you.
But I do not want that to be all of her. Before she was looking after me, she was a girl who took a bus to Chicago on her own at nineteen. She taught second grade for thirty-one years. She had a laugh that embarrassed her own children in restaurants.
She was not a quiet, patient woman. She was a loud, funny woman who chose to be patient with me.
That is the difference, and I want it on the record.
Go on now, sweetheart. I will be along.
Lines that carry weight
“She was a very good vet, who was also kind, in that order, because that is the order she would have put it in.”
Swap in her actual work. This one line undoes the whole problem of a woman being eulogized only for how she made other people feel.
“She was ambitious, and I want that word said out loud at a funeral for a young woman.”
For a daughter who wanted something and was working toward it. It is the sentence her friends will thank you for afterward.
“The last part of this is for her children. The rest of you can let it go past you.”
Say it early. It tells the room what is coming, and it gives you permission to speak directly to a four-year-old in front of two hundred adults.
“She was not a quiet, patient woman. She was a loud, funny woman who chose to be patient with me.”
For a daughter who was a caregiver. It credits the choice rather than the temperament, which is the whole point.
“She told me to tell you that she got to be your mom, and that was the good luck of her whole life.”
Only if she said something close to it. Never put invented words in her mouth, especially words her children will keep. If she said it differently, say it her way.
“She lost her battle with cancer.”
A cliché worth avoiding, and many women now specifically ask their families not to use it. “She was sick for two years and four months” is plainer, and it does not suggest that anyone lost by not trying hard enough.
“She was the glue that held this family together.”
Usually true and still worth cutting as a summary, because it is a job description rather than a person. If you use it, follow it immediately with one thing she did purely for herself.
“Please look after Andrew for longer than two weeks. Two weeks is when people stop.”
For a daughter who leaves a husband or partner. It is the most practically useful sentence anyone says at a funeral, and people do act on it.
“Heaven has another angel.”
Avoid. It is the most common line at any service, it says nothing about her, and the room stops listening for the next few sentences. Name her faith instead if faith belongs here.
“I have three things to say about my daughter, and then I am going to sit down.”
A clean way to start when you are not sure you can sustain more. It sets the length, and the room relaxes because it knows where the end is.
Delivering it
- Ask her husband or partner first · What he wants said, what he would rather you left alone, and whether the children will be in the room. Five minutes on the phone prevents the one sentence that gets remembered for the wrong reason.
- Write one paragraph for her children to hear at nineteen · Concrete and plain. What she was like with them, one thing she actually said, one thing she wanted for them. Write it separately, before the rest, when you have the most composure.
- Name her work in specifics · The job title, the years, the thing she was known for being good at. “She worked so hard for her family” is a category. “She did the books for sixty small businesses in this county” is a woman.
- Call a friend from her twenties · Ask for one story from before you were the person she was managing her life around. Parents know a daughter from the inside of a house, and one outside detail changes the whole speech.
- Agree on the illness words in advance · If she said anything about how she wanted it described, use her words. If she did not, pick the plainest ones and tell whoever else is speaking what you chose, so the service does not contradict itself.
- Say one thing she was not good at · Late to everything, hopeless with money, could not be told anything by anybody. A room needs one recognizable flaw to believe the rest, and it is usually where the laugh comes from.
- You can sit down to read it · Ask for a chair and a handheld microphone. Standing for four minutes at eighty-six while your voice goes is not a test anyone needs you to pass, and the funeral director will have set this up before.
- You are allowed to do less than you think · Two minutes is a full eulogy. So is one story and a thank you. So is writing it out and asking her sister to read it while you sit with the grandchildren.
The general method, meaning structure, length and how to get through it without breaking down, is in how to write a eulogy, and there are twelve more examples on the main eulogy examples page.
Other relationships
Common questions
How long should a eulogy for a daughter be?
Her children are small. Should they be at the service?
How do I keep it from becoming a list of what she did for everyone else?
Should I mention her illness at all?
Can her husband and I both speak?
I am elderly and I do not think I can get through it. What are my options?
Keep reading
- How to Write a EulogyA step-by-step way to write and deliver a eulogy, including how long it should be, what to say first, and how to get through it.
- Funeral Speech ExamplesShort funeral speech examples for anyone asked to say a few words, including what to do if you are not the main speaker.
- Funeral PoemsPublic-domain funeral poems you can print in a program or on a card, with any cut marked, plus the modern ones families ask for most, listed by title and poet with a note on which you can print.