If you are thinking about ordering a personalised memorial song, one of the first questions people ask themselves is: do I have enough to share? Will I be able to describe them properly? What if I can't find the words?
This guide is here to tell you: you already have everything you need. The problem is rarely a shortage of things to say — it is usually not knowing where to start when grief has made everything feel formless.
The most common mistake people make when trying to describe someone they've lost is starting too big. They try to capture everything — the whole person, the whole life, everything they meant. That is an impossible task, and it leads to the kind of description that, while true, doesn't quite feel like them. She was kind. He was always there for us. She loved her family.
These things are real. But they don't make a song. What makes a song is specificity.
Instead of "she was kind", try: what is one specific thing she did that was kind? Not in general — a particular time, a particular thing.
Instead of "he was always there for us", try: when was one time he showed up? What did he say? What did he do?
The specific detail — the exact phrase, the particular habit, the one memory that keeps coming back — is the material that a song is made from. You don't need to cover the whole person. You need to give us the parts of them that only you know.
A song that says "she always had the radio on by six" lands differently than a song that says "she was always there." Both are true. Only one is hers.
When people share memories that produce the most moving songs, these are the things that come up most often:
A phrase they used to say. Something specific — not inspirational, not profound necessarily, just theirs. The way they answered the phone. A word they always used. Something they said every morning.
A routine or habit. The tea they made, the chair they sat in, the thing they did without thinking. These small, repeated things are often where people feel the absence most sharply — and they are exactly what makes a song feel like that specific person.
A place that mattered. Somewhere that was theirs, or somewhere you went together. A particular garden, a pub, a seafront, a walk. Place anchors memory.
One moment. Not their best moment or their defining moment — just a moment. A Sunday afternoon, a car journey, a time they made you laugh, a time they made you feel safe. One moment, fully remembered, is worth a dozen general descriptions.
What you'll miss most. Not in general — specifically. The phone calls? The way they smelled? Their laugh? The particular way they came through the door? The thing you didn't realise you'd miss until you did?
Something left unsaid. You don't have to include this if it doesn't feel right. But if there is something you wish you'd said — or something they knew but you never quite got around to putting into words — a song can carry that in a way that ordinary conversation sometimes cannot.
Some people find it helpful to write as if they were telling a friend about the person — not formally, not for an audience, just talking. What would you say about them over a cup of tea? What story would you tell?
Others find it easier to answer one question at a time. If the questionnaire feels like too much to look at whole, start with just one field. Their name. Then their nickname. Then one thing. You don't have to do it all at once.
It is completely normal to cry while filling it in. It is completely normal to need several sittings. There is no time limit. Nothing expires. Take however long you need.
The person asking whether they have enough to describe someone they loved for twenty, thirty, fifty years almost always has more than enough. The struggle isn't a shortage of material. It's that grief makes everything feel stuck — like the words are there but can't quite be reached.
Start with one thing. The smallest, most specific thing you can think of. The rest will follow.
There is no rush. Take as long as you need. When you're ready to share what you remember, we're here to turn it into something that lasts.
Begin Their Song →