Michelle Leray, a Métis death doula who often performs outdoor ceremonies, at Winnipeg’s Assiniboine Forest, on May 7.Shannon VanRaes/The Globe and Mail
When Michelle Leray got the call in March, 2018, that her grandmother was dying, she dropped everything.
She brought lilacs to her bedside — her grandmother loved the smell — and fed her her favourite foods. She held her hand and sang to her. About two months later, Ms. Leray was the last person to hear her grandmother speak.
“I told her it was okay to let go,” Ms. Leray said. Her grandmother died later that day.
While her grandmother had received care, Ms. Leray saw firsthand the many gaps in emotional and spiritual support that families face at the end of life: “There was so much I would’ve changed.”
Two years later, she enrolled in a program at Douglas College, based in New Westminster, B.C., to become a certified end-of-life doula: a non-medical practitioner who supports individuals and their families through dying, grief and everything in between.
The word “doula” comes from the Greek word meaning “woman who serves” and is most often associated with birth. But just as doulas usher life into the world, end-of-life doulas – also known as “death doulas” – help ease people out of it.
As a Métis woman, Ms. Leray provides personalized support to her Indigenous clients, which can include practices such as a smudging ceremony – a cleansing ritual that involves burning sacred herbs.Shannon VanRaes/The Globe and Mail
As a larger portion of Canada’s population ages, demand for end-of-life support is growing. For those facing terminal illness or simply planning ahead, death doulas offer an alternative to clinical care, with services that focus on companionship, listening and legacy.
Unlike hospice workers or estate planners, death doulas don’t handle medical care or financial matters. Instead, they help people navigate the emotional and logistical aspects of dying. That might mean caring for someone in their final hours by sitting bedside and singing lullabies, or stepping in months or even years in advance – whether helping mend relationships, or guiding a person through legacy work, such as writing a personal memoir.
Ms. Leray, who has been fascinated by death since childhood, recalled how she forged a lasting bond with her grandmother because she would thoughtfully answer all her questions about life’s end.
“A lot of people assume that my work is either very morbid or depressing,” said Ms. Leray, now 43 and living in Winnipeg. “But honestly, it‘s quite the opposite. It‘s incredibly empowering. It helps you live more fully when you prepare for your eventual death.”
Death doulas see their work as a crucial part of estate planning – not just offering emotional support, but helping clients articulate their wishes for their final days and beyond. By facilitating these conversations, doulas give families a clearer roadmap to honour their loved one’s values and ease the burden of decision-making during an already difficult time.
However, end-of-life doula services in Canada remain unregulated and are not covered by public or private insurance, making financial planning essential. The cost varies depending on the level of support.
Ms. Leray, for example, charges $140 an hour for one-off sessions, and between $60 and $100 an hour for continuing care. While many doulas offer sliding-scale fees or occasional pro bono work, the out-of-pocket nature of the service means it’s often a deliberate financial choice — one some families weigh alongside funeral expenses, wills or powers of attorney.
Unlike hospice workers or estate planners, death doulas don’t handle medical care or financial matters. Instead, they help people navigate the emotional and logistical aspects of dying.Shannon VanRaes/The Globe and Mail
Ms. Leray believes it‘s worth the cost for those who seek something deeper than what traditional health care can provide: “The people who reach out to us are usually looking for that kind of holistic, human support they might not find elsewhere.”
Many doulas also specialize in culturally specific care. For example, as a Métis woman, Ms. Leray provides personalized support to her Indigenous clients, which can include practices such as a smudging ceremony – a cleansing ritual that involves burning sacred herbs.
Across Canada, training programs for end-of-life doulas have multiplied over the past decade. Since launching in 2017, nearly 3,500 have graduated from Douglas College’s program. The 32-hour course, which costs $810, teaches topics ranging from vigil support to cross-cultural beliefs around death and dying.
At Laurentian University in Sudbury, Ont., a non-credit micro-credential course was launched in 2024. Fourteen people have completed the program, and about 50 more are currently enrolled, according to Christina Sckopke, manager of micro-credentials and non-credit programming.
One of those students is Rikki Sibbald, a 38-year-old elementary school teacher in Penetanguishene, Ont, who took the course after witnessing the deaths of several close family members. She prioritizes offering respite to families, such as sitting vigil at the hospital so family members can go home and shower.
“We also can continue our help with the family once the dying person has transitioned to death,” such as supporting funeral arrangements, she said.
Once people receive certification, many join the End of Life Doula Association of Canada, a professional organization of end-of-life practitioners. Since its founding in 2017, nearly 500 people have become members, co-founder Jennifer Mallmes said.
While membership is voluntary, it provides standards for education, practical experience and background checks – offering some consistency and guidelines in an otherwise unregulated field.
For Ms. Leray, helping others die well is ultimately about helping the living, too.
“It just makes you so grateful for every single day you have,” she said. “Because death is a teacher, if we let it be.”
