Why Advance Care Directives Are an Act of Love

Losing someone we love, or the fear of losing someone we love one day is a difficult experience and we can all relate to it. None of us are an exception to this reality.

- Aamir Khan

We often think of love as something we express in life through the ways we show up, speak, and care for those around us. But love has a lasting echo, one that continues even when we are no longer able to speak ourselves.

We often think of advance care planning as sterile paperwork (if you don't know what this is, I will explain later). Boxes to check and forms to sign. Though, I have come to see it differently. To me, these conversations, and paperwork, are a kind of love story. They are the quiet planning beneath the chaos and grief. A hand reaching forward in time to say, "I want to make this easier for you."

When loss arrives, and it always does, grief takes up all the air in the room. When unexpected events arrive, you are filled with fear and carry a heavy heart, making decisions difficult to make. It becomes nearly impossible to think clearly, let alone make weighty decisions about care, treatment, or final arrangements. In the midst of that heavy emotional storm, these plans become anchors. They free our loved ones from uncertainty so they can be fully present, to grieve with grace instead of confusion.

This kind of planning doesn't take away the sadness, but it softens the edges. It says:

I was thinking of you, even then.

And that kind of foresight, that kind of love, matters more than we often realize.

In the years of my work as a nurse and a death doula, I have walked alongside people and their families during these moments. I have seen how much peace these simple, yet profound conversations can bring during the hardest moments of life.

What is an Advance Healthcare Directive?

An advance healthcare directive / advance care directive is more than a legal document; it's a way of voicing your wishes when your voice may no longer rise. It allows you to outline the kind of care you wish to receive if you are ever seriously ill or unable to make your wishes known. It lifts the weight of hard decisions from loved ones, that are responsible of making these decisions for you when you aren't able to. It replaces confusion with clarity because it was established by you. There is no guessing what you would have wanted. This serves as a guide for your loved ones.

There are a few parts that often fall under this umbrella and are their own separate legal documents:

1.) An Advance Healthcare Directive or Living Will:

This outlines your preference for life-sustaining measures, pain management, and other medical interventions. It answers the questions: What would they want, what do I want to be done with my body, and what does comfort look like for me at end of life?

2.) Durable Power of Attorney (DPOA or POA):

This names a person you trust to speak on your behalf and make medical decisions if you are unable to. Someone who knows your values, beliefs, and wishes. If you were to go unresponsive or legally unable to make decisions for yourself, this person would call the shots for you. It's a difficult role to fill, so choose someone who will be able to honor your wishes to the fullest even if they are difficult ones to make.

3.) Do Not Resuscitate (DNR) Order:

A DNR is a specific medical order that tells the healthcare providers to not perform CPR if your heart were to stop beating or you stop breathing. It's not about giving up; it's about choosing the kind of death you would want. This form is your last chance to choose whether you continue to push, or you let go. It's important to think of if you continue to push, what would that look like? If you were to survive, would you come to your normal self or would you be incapacitated? Would this be what you consider good quality of life? Lots to consider here.

Why It matters & Why We Sometimes Avoid These Topics

Talking about death can feel like opening a door we are not ready to walk through. Often, when I talk about death or when I get others to talk about unexpected circumstances, I get told, "Let's not put that juju out there." We avoid it not because we don't care, but because we don't want to admit to the reality, we all face. Speaking about it makes it true. It becomes "too real". The less we talk about it, the less it becomes reality. The thought of not being here, or losing someone we love, can be heavy to hold. We change the subject. We brush it under the rug for another day. We say, "Later."

But, in my experience, later often comes too quickly.

In my years as a nurse, especially in the ER and in hospice, I saw the same heartbreaking pattern again and again. Families trying to make impossible decisions in the midst of chaos and deep grief. Not many people will understand what it's like to watch this from an outsider perspective. It's brutal to watch families have to make life calling decisions when their minds are clouded with deep emotions. They don't get to properly process all the emotions that come their way. People weren't able to be fully present with their loved ones in their final moments because they were scrambling to make choices based off what their loved ones would have wanted. I saw the pain it caused, not just emotional, but spiritual, mental, and even physical.

This became the very reason I stepped into this work more intentionally. I knew there had to be a better way. A better way to give loved ones the ability to grieve fully. To process everything that was happening. A way to give people a voice when they were no longer able to voice their wishes. A way to tell loved ones, without telling them, "It's okay to let go. It's not your fault. I give you permission to let go, and I love you."

Advance care planning is one of the most important acts of love and protection we can offer. To ourselves and to those we leave behind. It turns chaos into some form of clarity. It lessens the guilt on those having to make the final call. It gives your people a path. It allows you to remain present, rather than consumed by logistics or legalities. It holds space for grief to breathe.

The resistance is human. We fear the permanence of decisions. We fear letting go. We fear the unknown.

We're not sure what we want. Or we think it's too early, that we're "Too young. Too healthy. Not there yet." But the truth is, none of us can predict the future.

The best time to plan is when the skies are still clear. When your mind is steady. When you have time to read through your choices. Thoughtfully weigh out the pros and cons. And when your loved ones aren't holding their breath waiting for answers.

This is why I started The Mouring Moonlight. I wanted people to have a say in how things go. To give people the option. To help them navigate difficult decisions because these topics aren't light. They are absolutely difficult. It's even more difficult having to explain these to the people you love. Sometimes they don't understand, but that's my job. To hold the space. To help everyone understand that these are your wishes. It's not because they are selfish or because you don't love your family. It's because this is what you want for yourself. This is your life.

A Note on Boundaries and Values

If I'm honest, and I always try my best to be without sounding too blunt, this work is layered. It's very intimate and vulnerable. To hire someone to sit one-on-one with and discuss your final wishes, isn't easy. What's even more difficult is trying to get all your loved ones to understand your wishes. These conversations unfold quietly in "The In between" places. In the stillness between breaths, in the courage it takes to ask hard questions, in the vulnerability of being seeing in your uncertainty. This isn't work that lends itself to shortcuts or broad strokes. It is deeply personal, often tender, and always holds tons of weight.

It seems easy. Like a walk in the park. But if it was, I wouldn't be witness to this countless of times. I wouldn't have created this business if I hadn't seen a repeated pattern over and over again.

Over time, I've learned to honor what happens in the one-on-one spaces with the people I serve. Those spaces are not meant to be replicated, summarized, or shared beyond the moment. They belong to the person navigating their own end-of-life planning, their own loss, or the complexities of caregiving. They are spaces where the emotional weight is allowed to settle and be acknowledged, not just rushed or reshaped. These are life changing decisions, and they are meant to be given some deep thought.

Let's be honest here. When you have gone to the doctor, do they fully sit with you and explain your options? Do they take the time to fully hear you out or do you feel rather rushed? Does it maybe seem like they are speaking in a foreign language because they are speaking to you in medical jargon? Exactly my point. You deserve to understand ALL your options. You're not just another client, case, patient, or number. You're a human being. This is your life. You aren't someone to make a profit off of or taken advantage of. You are someone who is deserving of answers. Patience. Acceptance. And genuine, compassionate love.

Because of this, I hold a clear boundary between what I offer publicly and what is reserved for private sessions. I write and share in the hope of guiding and encouraging. I'm not here to gatekeep the secrets of this field. But the heart of this work happens in quiet partnership shaped by the individuals before me.

If what you've read here has stirred something in you, made you reflect, or brought up questions- you are always invited to reach out. Whenever you're ready. No pressure here. Just the steady knowing that when you feel called to take the next step, I'll meet you with openness and care. No judgement. Ever.