Growing Up the Undertaker’s Daughter

Growing up the undertaker’s daughter in a small Wisconsin town meant that life and death were always side by side, woven into the fabric of our days. Ours was the kind of town where everyone knew my father, and by extension, they knew us. He carried the weight of people’s grief with a gentleness that taught me from an early age that sorrow is sacred, and that to stand beside someone in their darkest hour is one of the greatest callings of all.

While other children’s homes smelled of casseroles or fresh-cut grass, ours often carried the faint scent of lilies and polished wood. The funeral home was more than just my father’s work; it was a place where life lessons came alive. I saw how he greeted every family with kindness, how he remembered names, how his voice softened when people needed space for their tears. He was not just an undertaker—he was a keeper of stories, a guardian of memories, a quiet presence in the storm of loss.

As kids, we learned early on that death was not something to be feared but something to be respected. When classmates whispered about how “strange” it must be to live our life, I silently carried the secret truth: it was a gift. Because while they were shielded from the reality of mortality, I grew up knowing how fragile life is, and how precious every ordinary day can be.

In our small town, people would stop us at the grocery store or the gas station to thank my dad, sometimes with tears still in their eyes. “You helped us so much,” they’d say, and I’d watch a flicker of peace cross his face. Those moments shaped me. They taught me that love doesn’t always come in grand gestures—it often comes in simply showing up, quietly, faithfully, when someone else’s world has fallen apart.

Being the undertaker’s daughter gave me a kind of wisdom I didn’t ask for but now treasure deeply. I learned that laughter belongs beside tears, that grief and joy are not enemies but companions. I learned that you never walk away from someone else’s pain; you lean in. You listen. You remember that every person is someone’s beloved.

And perhaps most beautifully, I learned that healing isn’t found in pushing away the reality of death but in embracing the fullness of life. My father’s work whispered that truth every day: if we remember that our days are numbered, we will hold tighter to the ones we love, laugh louder at the dinner table, and find beauty even in the simplest of things.

So yes, I grew up the undertaker’s daughter, in a little Wisconsin town where everyone knew my father and us kids. And though it was different, though it sometimes felt heavy, it gave me a heart shaped by compassion and a spirit that understands the holiness of both beginnings and endings. It gave me eyes to see that every sunrise is a gift, and that every goodbye holds the quiet promise that love never really leaves us.