Sherry: Gentle Release
In this work, I witness the many ways people approach their final days. Some do so with courageous trepidation, others with quiet resentment, and nearly all with a measure of holding on- wishing for more time, or for a different ending.
Often, my role is to help families soften the edges of long-held conflict so that love can flow freely again, or to gently remove the blinders that keep them from seeing what is approaching.
In Sherry’s case, that work was already done. Something within her had spoken clearly: it was time.
She set her own stage with clarity and grace, telling her family she wished to enter hospice and avoid another hospital stay. Her two children—fiercely devoted and tender in their grief—tearfully accepted her choice. Sherry had decided that her time was complete, and she met the moment with openness. She was ready to talk about her regrets, her triumphs, her grief, and her own death. I found myself looking to her as a quiet teacher in the art of acceptance.
Sherry carried light with her. She wore colorful clothes and sassy glasses, and her home pulsed with warmth as the family’s gathering place. She raised two beautifully devoted children and was beloved by neighbors, friends, and family alike.
It was Sherry who introduced me to Thanatopsis, William Cullen Bryant’s poem on death and nature. Each visit, we read a few verses aloud—our ritual of reflection and gratitude for the poem’s wise instruction. In its final lines, Bryant writes:
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his cloak
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
Sherry told me that her “drapery” was woven of the love, pride, and steadfast support of her children, in-laws, and grandchildren. She wrapped herself in that cloak as she prepared to leave. I feel certain her dying was as gentle as it was because of the depth of that love.
What a profound privilege it is to witness a family release someone to their peace.
Sherry died one month after we began working together—peacefully, alone, in her sleep. Her letting go was complete and untethered. She allowed the process to unfold naturally, without resentment or resistance.
Her death was remarkable in its simplicity, and it left me reflecting on the life, guided by love, which allowed her to die with intention, grace, and gentility.
May we all find such peaceful resolution within ourselves. May we all find a readiness born not of resignation, but of deep trust in the gentle turning of life.
