A Tale Of Two Eulogies
A Mother’s Day Reflection
Stephen Covey once suggested a mental exercise:
Imagine your own funeral.
Picture those gathered—family, friends, colleagues.
What do you hope they’ll say about you?
For years, my answer to that question felt vague. Unanchored. Aspirational.
Then I came across a video of an elderly man with Parkinson’s.
He’d been to a lot of funerals lately.
And he said something that stayed with me:
There are really only two kinds of eulogies.
One talks about what a person did.
The other talks about who a person was.
That observation stopped me cold.
It gave me the lens I’d been missing to answer Covey’s question.
The First Eulogy: What You Did
This eulogy is full of achievement.
She graduated top of her class.
He built a company from scratch.
She raised money, broke records, earned awards.
It’s a list of milestones—like a résumé read from a podium.
It tells us what they did—but not who they were.
The Second Eulogy: Who You Were
The second eulogy is harder to write, but easier to recognize.
He made people feel safe.
She took time when she didn’t have to.
He showed up when it mattered.
She never let anyone feel small.
This eulogy lives in memory.
It tells us not what they accomplished, but how they made people feel.
What We Want vs What We Do
We say we want the second kind of eulogy.
But we live like we’re chasing the first.
We chase titles. We answer emails at dinner.
We promise to slow down—after the raise, after the next deadline.
After life stops demanding so much.
But time isn’t generous with “later.”
And if we’re not careful, we’ll get a eulogy we don’t want.
The Real Question
Lately, I’ve been asking myself a harder question:
Am I living in a way that will earn the eulogy I actually want?
Because the second kind doesn’t just happen.
It’s built—quietly, daily—by how we show up
for the people who matter most.
You know who lives that way—every day, without asking for credit?
Mothers.
The Unfair Choice
Society doesn’t make it easy for mothers.
They’re often forced to choose between what the world celebrates—accomplishment— and what their hearts may long for—time with their children.
Those who pursue careers and accolades are told they’ve “had it all,”
but I suspect they quietly mourn the time they missed.
Those who choose to be present — at home — often feel unappreciated and invisible.
I can’t pretend to know what that feels like. But from the outside, it doesn’t look like a fair trade. Still, they make the best call they can, even when no one sees the weight of it. Whether they chase a career to provide more or give it up to be present, the choice is rarely simple.
And far too often, it goes unseen—a quiet embodiment of the second eulogy.
And Maybe That’s the Point of Mother’s Day
It’s not about the cards. Or the flowers.
It’s about acknowledging the effort of the one who brought us into the world.
To let her know her effort mattered.
That she still does.
I know—for many of us, the relationship with a parent isn’t simple.
As we grow older, the distance between our views can widen.
We argue. We drift. We see the world differently.
And maybe, in time, the same will happen with our children.
But even in that tension, my belief remains:
Love for a child never leaves the heart of a parent.
Even when it’s hard to see. Even when it doesn’t look like love.
I know that as a parent—and I also know it as a child.
Mother’s Day, then, is an invitation—
To remember those who tried to live the second eulogy.
Not by being perfect,
but by being there the best way they could.
By loving us through the years,
even when we didn’t make it easy.
And maybe the best way to honor them
is to become that kind of presence—
for them,
and for someone else.
Happy Mother’s Day.