Designing with Empathy: How Stories Guide My Work

When a family reaches out to me, they're often in the thick of grief, those early days when everything feels too heavy and too much. They're not looking for a designer. They're looking for someone who understands that what we're creating together isn't just paper and ink. It's a way to hold onto someone they love. It's proof that their person mattered.

That's the weight and the privilege of what I do. I listen, really listen, to the stories that made someone who they were, and I try to honour them in a way that feels true. Because every life, no matter how it was lived or how long it lasted, deserves to be remembered beautifully.

⸻

Listening Before Designing

It always begins with a conversation, though it rarely feels like just that. Families share pieces of their loved one with me: the moments that made them laugh until they cried, the routines that shaped their days, the memories that won't stop surfacing. Sometimes they apologise for rambling or getting emotional. I always tell them: please don't. These stories are everything. They're what I need to create something real.

Then come the photographs. Fifty, eighty, sometimes more. Each one a window into a moment that mattered. I spread them out and look for the thread that runs through them all. The joy in their eyes. The way they held the people they loved. The life they built.

That's when the design starts to take shape. I add colour, texture, small illustrations, things that feel like them. And suddenly, it's not just a collection of images anymore. It's a person. It's a life. It's love made visible.

⸻

When Stories Become Design

Every creative choice I make is guided by the stories families trust me with. If someone spent every weekend in their garden, their design might be softly wrapped in botanicals: delicate, natural, alive. If the ocean was their sanctuary, I'll weave in blues that feel like calm water at dawn. These aren't just decorative touches. They're quiet nods to the things that brought them peace.

When I designed my grandfather's keepsake, I kept coming back to one thing: that old FX Holden he and my dad restored together. Everyone who spoke at his funeral mentioned that car. It wasn't just a vehicle. It was a symbol of patience, of working side by side, of passing something down. So I painted it in watercolour and let it appear throughout his memory card and slideshow. Every time I see it, I think of his hands on the bonnet, the grease under his nails, the pride in his smile. That's what I want families to feel when they see what we create together: that's him. That's her. That's exactly right.

⸻

The Role of Empathy

Empathy, for me, isn't about having the right words. It's about sitting in the uncomfortable space of grief without trying to fix it or rush past it. It's about understanding that when someone has just lost the person they love most in the world, the last thing they need is someone who can't handle their tears.

I've noticed something over the years: as families talk about their person, something shifts. The grief doesn't disappear, but warmth starts to seep back in. They remember the ridiculous things. The terrible jokes, the stubborn quirks, the way they always hummed while making breakfast. And they laugh. Not despite the sadness, but alongside it. That's when healing starts, I think. In those small, unexpected moments of joy.

My job is to hold space for all of it. The tears, the laughter, the long silences. I don't rush. I don't interrupt. Because it's often in those pauses, the ones that feel too long, that families remember the detail that matters most. The thing that becomes the heart of everything we create.

⸻

Crafting Something That Feels True

No two keepsakes I create are alike, because no two lives are alike. Some designs ask for softness: muted tones, gentle textures, space to breathe. Others need vibrancy, colour, light. I print everything on beautiful, weighty paper that feels substantial in your hands, because grief is heavy and what we hold onto should be worthy of that weight. Slideshows are paired with songs that feel like them, whether that's Sinatra or AC/DC or a hymn they sang every Sunday.

I know a design is finished when I look at it and feel something in my chest. When I think, yes. That's who they were. It's instinct more than anything, a quiet certainty that we've done right by them.

⸻

A Keepsake to Hold, and to Heal

What I hope families take away isn't just something beautiful to display or tuck into a drawer. I hope they feel seen. I hope when they look at what we've created together, they feel proud. I hope it becomes a place they can return to when they need to feel close again.

At The Farewell Studio, every design begins with a story, and every story becomes part of how we heal. My goal has always been the same: to create something lasting and beautiful that honours a life lived and helps the people left behind find their way through the fog.

Because grief is hard. But remembering, really remembering, can be a kind of medicine.

⸻

If you'd like to know more about how I work or how I might help create a keepsake for your loved one, please reach out here. There's no pressure, no timeline. I'm here whenever you're ready.