03/03/2026
๐๐๐๐ฅ ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ฅ๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ ๐๐ฆ๐๐๐ฃ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ฃ๐๐๐ฅ.
๐ฝ๐ฃ๐ ๐ ๐ค๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ฅ๐ ๐ค๐๐ฃ๐ง๐๐๐.
As a young child, my world was often shaped by silence - not because I had nothing to say, but because the words would not come.
I recall a regular classroom moment, which I remember vividly: the register being called and my name getting closer. I can still feel the sensations this brought. My heart pounding so hard it felt as though it might burst from my chest. The heat rising in my face. The overwhelming dread of knowing I would have to speak, to answer, to read aloud, and the desperate wish to run, to disappear, to be anywhere else but where I was.
My stutter was severe, and with it came the fear of being misunderstood, laughed at, or hurried. That fear led to bullying, and slowly I began to retreat into myself.
Silence became my protection.
Even when the stutter faded a few years later, the anxiety remained. It followed me quietly into young adulthood. I had a close circle of friends; however, I wouldnโt speak to anyone else.
And yet, alongside that silence, there was another part of me. I was a deeply creative child, losing myself for hours; writing poems, making crafts, and creating little magical worlds with my hands and my imagination.
As a teenager, that creativity became my safe place, a way of expressing everything I could not always say out loud. Words, when written, flowed freely. Feeling, meaning, and story - they were always there, waiting, and I felt contentment with my creations.
Looking back, I can see that this love of creativity and expression was quietly preparing me for the work I do today.
โธปโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโ-
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ฅ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐.
Twenty years ago, I walked into a Spiritualist church for the first time. I still remember how it felt. The atmosphere was calm, peaceful, warm, and uplifting.
I started attending more and became involved. I gave back to the Spiritualist church voluntarily because it had given so much to me. At the time, I had reached out for an educational side. I have always loved helping people, and this became my way of doing that.
That space healed those parts of me which needed healing. It balanced me, nurtured me and gently brought me back to my true self.
Ten years ago, I stepped into the role of President and ran the Spiritualist church with dedication for five years. It was a fifteen-minute journey which took thirty-three minutes, multiple times a week. It was not just leadership; it was working together as a team to help others.
I learned how to simply be there as a beacon of light:-
To listen attentively.
To walk alongside others.
To hold sacred space.
The church was not just a place; it was a community. A family. A place where grief was shared, where stories were told, where people were seen.
And it was there that I rediscovered my voice. Standing in front of a room full of people no longer felt like a threat - It felt like home.
โธปโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโ-
๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ฅ ๐๐ช๐ ๐๐ค๐๐๐ ๐๐.
Lyn was a member of the Spiritualist Church who I looked up-to. I had known Lyn from day one. One rainy evening, I pulled up outside Lynโs house after giving her a lift home from a service and she turned to me and said very calmly and very directly:
โNatalie, Iโd like you to take my funeral when I pass.โ
I remember my surprise.
โWhat, your life story?โ I asked.
โAll of it,โ she said. โIโd like you to take my whole service.โ
In that moment, I felt the immense trust she was placing in me and felt humbled she had asked me.
I was honored to be with people in their most vulnerable moments and at times, as part of my role, visited at incredibly sensitive times. I offered comfort, read poems and uplifting words, and spoke with those approaching the end of life in a way that was natural, peaceful, gentle, and supportive.
โธปโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโ
๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ฃ๐ค๐ฅ ๐๐ฆ๐๐๐ฃ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐ฅ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐จ๐๐๐.
Spending time with Lyn and her family was a true honour. Talking about Lynโs life and her wishes, having deep and honest conversations, and the details that made Lyn, her unique self, I realised that this was more than creating a service. I was being invited into the heart of her familyโs story and honoring Lynโs life while the soul was still living a physical existence.
I was part of the whole journey - not just the funeral.
Lynโs service took place during the pandemic, when restrictions were tight and heartbreak was magnified by distance, limitations, and the inability to grieve in the ways people normally would.
Walking into the crematorium that day, I felt an instant rush of warm upliftment, a deep instant sense of validation. It was as though every part of my life had led me to that doorway: โTHIS is where you are meant to be.โ
After the service, someone said to me that it was the best funeral they had ever been to. What that gave me was not pride (as my ego is very small) - but the quiet, overwhelming relief of knowing that I had done Lyn proud. That I had served her family well. That I had honored her trust.
Soon after, I was asked to take another funeral for another, dear church member - again during the pandemic. Once again, walking with a beautiful family through the whole journey, of course, feeling the profound honor of being invited into that sacred space and helping a family navigate through the most difficult of times.
โธปโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโ-
๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ฃ๐ค๐ฅ ๐๐ฆ๐๐๐ฃ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐ฅ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐จ๐๐๐.
What I have come to understand is that I am comfortable in the spaces many people find difficult:-
~ I can sit with grief.
~ I can talk about death.
~ I can hold conversations that others are afraid
to begin.
~ I can manage difficult conversations.
People often tell me that they find me easy to talk to. That they feel safe. That I bring a warm, calm presence. To me, that is not something I do - it is simply who I am because it comes very naturally.
It is a privilege to be a steady, gentle light in someoneโs darkest time.
โธปโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโ
๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ฅ๐ ๐ฆ๐ฃ - ๐๐๐ ๐ฅ๐๐ ๐ฃ๐๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ฃ๐.
After the two funerals, life took me on a five-year career detour, however, the calling never left. That sense of rightness stayed quietly within me until the time came for me to complete my professional funeral celebrancy training and step fully into this work.
โธปโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโ
๐๐๐ช ๐๐ช ๐ง๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ฅ๐ฅ๐๐ฃ๐ค.
Because of my journey, I donโt just speak the words in a ceremony. I understand the value of every single word:-
~ I know what it is to struggle to find your voice.
~ I know what it is to feel unheard.
~ I know how powerful it is when someone tells your.
story with care, truth, and love.
That is why it is important to me that you hear my voice in what I share - not just reposted slogans or borrowed words.
I am, and always will be, the Vocal Celebrant.
โธปโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโ-
๐ฝ๐ฃ๐ ๐ ๐ค๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ฅ๐ ๐ค๐๐ฃ๐ง๐๐๐.
The child who once sat in a classroom filled with dread at the thought of speaking now stands beside families and tells the story of a life.
With empathy. With heart. With purpose.
This work is not just my profession, it is my calling and such an honourable service, with a vocal voice - finally used in the way it was always meant to be ๐ค
