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to making only one important decision a day.
With COVID-19 reducing the number of visi-
tors Stackhouse gets, Thornhill’s role as a care-
taker and liaison has become more important.
“It ranks right up there with oxygen,” she says.
The impacT, and not the pay, is why many are drawn to the
work. Some doulas offer their services for free, Shook says,
while some operate on a sliding scale based on the client’s
ability to pay. Others, including those who have their own
private business, typically can charge $45 to $100 per hour,
although prices depend on many factors, including location
and duration of service. Many doulas offer package rates that
Shook has seen go from $500 to $5,000. “It’s all over the
place,” Shook says, adding that the costs are not covered by
any health-insurance plans.
Web has yet to make a profit after leaving her over–
$40,000-a-year aquarium job and pouring about $5,000 into
her new doula business, including costs for training courses,
office space, licenses, advertising, websites, and insurance.
But over the past six months, she’s felt her impact, which
has helped heal some of her own internal wounds from her
grandmother’s death.
The job is often misunderstood, partially because many
feel it’s a morbid occupation. But death doulas disagree, say-
ing there’s often more dignity in the work than sadness. Web
says her mother was horrified when Web started training to
become a doula in spring 2021. “She thought I
would be devastated 24/7 because I’m a sensitive
person,” Web says. But since she launched her
doula business early in June, she hasn’t felt that
way at all. “I can’t stop people from dying,” she
says. “All I can do is be there to support them.”
Dying is one experience every person has to go through.
But that doesn’t necessarily get easier to accept with time,
Yost has learned. “Fear is present at all ages,” she says. And
because there’s only one chance to do death right, several
doulas say it’s common for personal grief and regrets to drive
many toward end-of-life work.
In March 2019, Lightner’s father died following complica-
tions from a lung biopsy. Before that, he had spent about two
months intubated and hooked to a feeding tube and other
life-sustaining equipment before he was removed from life
support. Those months were challenging for Lightner, who
knew her father had not wanted that for himself. “We carry
guilt and we carry what-ifs,” she says. “Me becoming a death
doula is partially me grieving this loss.”
Every Tuesday evening, Lightner meets virtually with
about a dozen other new death doulas from around the coun-
try. They help one another navigate their careers, understand
the logistics of their businesses, and launch their websites.
But most of the time, she says, they’re spending their weekly
Zoom sessions working through their personal struggles and
renewing one another’s hope.