👩 Eulogy for mum (3 Examples)

Good morning everyone, I’m Emily, Anne’s daughter — though to me she was always Mum, or Annie when I really wanted her attention. Thank you for being here to farewell and celebrate the life of Anne Louise Carter. Mum was born on 12 March 1961 in Newcastle, and she left us on 18 February 2026, aged 64. Those numbers look small on paper. But they hold an ocean — a life lived close to the coast she loved, and close to the people she loved even more. Mum grew up with salt in her hair and Newcastle sand in her shoes. She studied nursing at the University of Newcastle and spent 35 years as a community nurse. That title sounds simple. Anyone who worked with her knows it meant stepping into kitchens and lounge rooms and moments of worry, and leaving people steadier than she found them. She had a kind of quiet that calmed people down. A way of listening that made you feel the most important person in the room. Gentle care, fierce advocacy — that was her. If a form needed chasing, a doctor needed calling, a problem needed sorting, Mum rolled up her sleeves and did the job properly. In 1985 she married Dad — Michael — and for 41 years they were a team. They raised me and my brother Joshua, and in recent years she became Nanna to Chloe and Max, the role she liked best of all. She was sister to Peter and Lynne, and daughter of the late Margaret and John, whose warmth and grit we saw in her every day. Outside of work, Mum gave herself to the community. She volunteered with Surf Life Saving Newcastle, and if you ever got a text from her on a Tuesday, there was a fair chance it was about the blood donation drive she’d lined up — dates, times, a gentle nudge, and the promise of a cuppa afterwards. She was active in the school P&C, turning sausage sizzles into small masterclasses in efficiency. “Move the sauce to the front, love — no one wants to reach,” she’d say, and suddenly the whole line moved faster. In 2021 she finally retired. It wasn’t so she could slow down, just change gears. She wanted more time with Chloe and Max, more weekends caravanning up the coast with Dad, more bushwalks in the Watagans, more moments that didn’t need a clock. She planted natives in the garden and watched the birds find them. She baked lamingtons and ANZAC biscuits the way her mum taught her — no fuss, perfect every time — and always had a container ready “just in case someone pops by.” In Mum’s house, someone always popped by. The traits we’ll keep carrying from her are easy to name, because she wore them daily. Compassionate. Steady under pressure. Quietly funny — the kind of humour that arrived as a sideways comment just when you needed it. Endlessly patient. Practical and down‑to‑earth. Her values were simple and non‑negotiable: kindness first, do the job properly, look out for your neighbours, and always have a cuppa ready. For me, Mum was my safe place and my first phone call for everything. Big news, little panic, a half‑baked recipe question at 9 pm — I rang Mum. Her voice could make a problem smaller before I even finished explaining it. She didn’t rush to fix me. She’d ask a few careful questions, give me the look that meant “you know the answer,” and then end with, “Right, love — make a plan and have a cup of tea.” It worked more often than I’d like to admit. My favourite memory with her is simple. Sunrise at Merewether Beach, just the two of us, a thermos of tea balanced between our knees. We’d sit there talking about everything and nothing — the clouds, the kids, the neighbour’s new fence. Once, when I asked her how she kept so calm through other people’s storms, she shrugged and said, “Start with kindness. Then keep going.” We watched the sun lift over the water, the world waking up, and I remember thinking, this is what feeling safe feels like. I’ll carry those mornings with me always. Mum remembered everyone’s little details — the exam you were dreading, the knee that played up in winter, your dog’s name. She didn’t collect this information to make small talk; she held it like it mattered, because to her it did. That’s why so many of you have told us you’ll miss her warm hugs and that calm voice. Those weren’t accidental. They came from a life spent turning towards people. She wasn’t all halo and hymn sheet. She was also gloriously practical. If a flat tyre needed changing on the way to a P&C meeting, she’d have the jack out before Dad found the manual. If you were being a bit dramatic, she’d hand you a bikkie and say, “Alright, love, now let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” And if you wandered into her kitchen while she was baking, you might get a spoon to lick — after you’d washed your hands properly. Standards were standards. Today hurts. Of course it does. But when I look around this room — Dad, Josh, Chloe and Max; Uncle Peter and Aunty Lynne; friends from the surf club, from the ward, from the school gates; neighbours who became family — I can hear her voice again: “Start with kindness. Then keep going.” We will keep going with what she left us. We’ll check in on each other. We’ll put the kettle on. We’ll plant something native and watch it grow. There’s a song Mum loved — Throw Your Arms Around Me by Hunters & Collectors. When I hear it now, I think of how she threw her arms around all of us, not just in hugs, but in the way she gathered people in and made space for them. That’s the legacy we get to live out. A thousand small acts done properly, with care. On behalf of our family, thank you for the love you’ve shown us and for the love you showed Mum across her life. If you were thinking of flowers, Mum would be quietly chuffed if you instead supported the Cancer Council NSW. That’s very her — there’s always someone else to look out for. Mum, Annie — thank you. For the steady hands, the patient heart, the dry jokes, the lists on the fridge, the beach mornings, the lamingtons that never lasted a day, and for every time you picked up the phone and made the world feel manageable. We’ll miss you in a thousand ordinary ways. And we’ll honour you in a thousand ordinary ways too. We love you. We’ll start with kindness. And we’ll keep going.

Good afternoon, everyone. Thank you for being here to remember and celebrate my mum, Patricia Minh Nguyen—our Trish. Seeing so many bright colours today would make her grin. She never much liked the idea that grief had to be dressed in black. I’m Liam, her son, her sounding board, and—if you asked her—her favourite kitchen hand even though I was absolutely hopeless with the coffee machine. We were close and honest with each other. Mum wanted the truth, even when it was messy, and she gave it back with love and a cheeky smile. Mum was born on 28 August 1970 in Sydney, the daughter of Hoa and Lan, who had the courage to start again in Cabramatta. She grew up in a home where the language of love was food and effort—one more bowl, one more hour, one more try. That set the rhythm for her whole life. She excelled at school, studied hospitality, and then did the gutsy thing: she opened Trish’s Kitchen in Bankstown. She built a café that was more than a café. It was a front door that never closed on anyone who needed a place to land. In 1994, she married Dad—David—and they were properly, wonderfully themselves together. They raised Zoe and me while Mum grew a beloved local institution out of flour, patience and that booming laugh from the kitchen. If you know, you know: the legendary pork rolls, the pandan cake that sold out in the time it took to post about it, and the deep belief that a warm banh mi at the right moment could solve at least half of life’s problems. Mum passed away on 9 January this year. She was 55. Saying that still feels surreal. But when I think about her life, I don’t think first about the ending. I think about the mornings that started in the dark, the mixer already going, and my phone buzzing at 5.12am with a text that said, “Wake up, sleepyhead. Taste test time,” followed by approximately sixteen food emojis and a photo that was definitely out of focus. I think about the people who came through those doors—students in their first jobs, new arrivals finding their feet, neighbours who became regulars and then became friends. Mum mentored so many of them. She didn’t just teach how to fold the paper just so around a pork roll; she taught punctuality, pride in a well-swept floor, and the art of giving people a fair go. In her world, everyone got a first chance, and if you stuffed it up, a second. She was hard‑working—famously so—but that’s not the full story. She had a seriously cheeky sense of humour. Tuesday nights, after netball, she’d stride into the house like a victorious captain, scuffed knees and all, and announce to absolutely no one in particular that she’d “carried the team again.” Karaoke nights with her friends were, frankly, a hostage situation. Once she had the mic, we all lived inside “Total Eclipse of the Heart” until the batteries died. She cheered for the Swans with the unshakeable optimism of someone who was sure her yelling at the TV helped them run harder. And weekends at the markets were a tactical operation—she’d haggle for herbs, invent a new recipe on the drive home, and then stay up too late tinkering with it until, as she’d say, “it finally sang.” Some of my best memories are Lunar New Year nights in our backyard. You could feel the summer air buzzing. Mum at the BBQ, music up just a little too loud, the scent of lemongrass and smoke in everything. She’d move through the crowd like a conductor, flipping skewers, topping up plates, laughing from somewhere deep in her chest. Then she’d kneel down and press a red envelope into tiny, sticky hands with a wink that said, “Don’t tell your parents.” That was Mum—generous to a fault, happy to be the mischief in a memory, always finding a way to make the moment bigger, warmer, more ours. She was fiercely protective of family. If you were one of hers—Dad, Zoe, me, her parents Hoa and Lan, her brother Michael, her sister Kim, the nieces and nephews who adored their Aunty Trish—you had a defender. She could be politely unstoppable. I once watched her negotiate a supplier into delivering at 6am on a public holiday with nothing but manners and a look that said she knew how the world should work, and this was it. But her strength wasn’t loud all the time. A lot of it was quiet resilience. The sort that shows up when the oven breaks on the busiest day of the year, or when the bills and the worries pile up higher than the baking trays. She didn’t pretend things were easy. She just kept turning up, mixing the batter, opening the doors, celebrating small wins like they were grand finals. “One good coffee,” she’d say, “can reset a day.” So could one kind word. So could one chance offered to the kid who’d dropped three plates and wanted to quit. She saw what people were trying to be, not just what they’d managed so far. I know what many of us will miss. The early‑morning texts that meant you were on her mind before the sun was. The laugh coming from the kitchen—the kind that rolled out and made the whole place feel safe. The way newcomers—especially those fresh off a long flight and a longer journey—were made to feel instantly at home. Mum had a talent for removing the sharp edges from a room. You’d sit down at Trish’s Kitchen and it didn’t matter where you’d come from; for a little while, you belonged. She held to simple, sturdy values: gratitude, loyalty, giving people a fair go. She liked to celebrate small wins—first time someone poured a heart into a flat white, first time a staff member served a full lunch rush without panic, first day a young barista remembered a regular’s order without peeking. She’d clap, laugh, shove a corner of pandan cake into your hand and say, “Look at you. World champion.” It sounds tiny. It wasn’t. Those moments put belief into people. Mum understood that big lives are built out of small victories noticed by someone who cares. I want to say, too, that she loved colour—on the plate and in the world. If you’re wearing something bright today, thank you. That’s her language. She taught me that life is shorter than you think, and the best time to throw a party is now. She’d want us to remember her not by how heavy the loss feels, but by how much larger she made the everyday—how a Tuesday could feel like a festival because there were fresh herbs, a good song on the radio, and the netball team had, allegedly, won because of her. There are things Mum would be chuffed to hear today. She’d be proud of Dad, of the way he stood shoulder to shoulder with her in every part of life. She’d be proud of Zoe—your courage, your wit, the way you inherited her radar for who in a room needs looking after. She’d be proud of her parents, Hoa and Lan, for building the foundation she stood on, and of Michael and Kim, for sharing her stubborn kindness. She’d be proud of her nieces and nephews—of all the ways you’ve already started carrying her spirit forward, whether it’s through your own first jobs or the way you stack the dishwasher exactly how Aunty Trish taught you. And she’d be proud of the team at the café. She believed in you. She always did. We can honour her by continuing the things she cared about. Be the first to text in the morning. Laugh from the heart. Leave room at the table for someone new. Celebrate the small wins and make sure shy people are introduced. And keep an eye out for those who are finding their way in a new country—offer a job, a lift, a hot meal, a tip on where the weekend markets have the best greens. If you’re able, donations in Mum’s memory to Settlement Services International would mean a lot. It’s exactly the work she championed—practical help for people starting over. After the service, we’ll gather at the café. It feels right to fill that space with stories and crumbs and the kind of noise that says love lives here. If you have a Trish tale—and I know you do—please share it. Recipes, too, are very welcome. Mum believed good recipes should travel. Mum used to finish our calls with, “Okay, go do your best. And eat something.” It was her two‑part gospel. Do your best. Have a snack. I can almost hear her saying it now, and I can picture her hands—quick, capable, a little flour on one knuckle—waving me out the door to get on with it. Patricia Minh Nguyen. Trish. Daughter of migrants who made a home, student who excelled, hospitality pro who turned skill into welcome, wife to David, mum to Zoe and me, loving daughter to Hoa and Lan, sister to Michael and Kim, proud Aunty, mentor, head baker, kitchen comedian, Swans fan, market strategist, and champion of the fair go. She lived in a way that made room for others. She left a map for how to keep doing that without her. Mum, thank you for the mornings you woke the world up so we could catch the good bits. Thank you for defending us, teasing us, teaching us, feeding us, and for telling us, again and again, that celebration doesn’t have to wait for something perfect. We’ll miss your texts. We’ll miss your laugh. We’ll miss the way you could make a crowded room feel like a family kitchen. We’ll carry you forward—in our work, in our jokes, in the way we hand a warm roll across a counter and mean it. Go easy, Mum. We’ll do our best. And yes—we’ll eat something.

Good afternoon, everyone. We’re here for Lauren. Loopy Lauren to those of us who knew the full sparkle of her. I met Lauren first in laughter. Not polite chuckles, but that infectious, uncontainable laugh that rolled through a room and tugged you into its orbit. She had a way of setting the tone — showtime face on, a quick wink — even when illness had been tugging at her sleeve. When she had the strength, she lit up the place. When she didn’t, she slept — unapologetically, sometimes right there in the middle of the day — because she’d spent every last ounce of herself on people, on plans, on love. She was born on 24 February 1977, and she did not waste the years between then and now. Lauren made life busy, bright and useful. She was a gardener with soil under her nails and ideas blooming faster than the flowers. An animal lover whose dogs knew every park path by heart. Horses in her eyes, wind in her hair. She baked like a hug you could eat. She hosted like a mission, making sure there was always room for one more chair, one more story, one more plate. She cared for people in a hundred quiet ways, and in a few loud, hilarious ones too. She was entrepreneurial — always buying, selling, hustling — turning bits and pieces into something that worked. A problem-solver wrapped in glorious chaos. On or off. Black or white. Blunt enough to make you blink and then somehow, in the very next breath, a little confusing and very wise. She was selective with her friendships in recent years, and I admired that — she sought authenticity, and she offered it back. My favourite memory is simple: walking the dogs in the park with her. We were silly and young — even when we weren’t that young anymore. She’d pull a face, break into a shameless, bold bit of goofing about, and that laugh would start. Strangers would turn and smile without knowing why. Those are the moments I’ll carry — the small, ordinary ones she made extraordinary. Lauren lived by values you could feel. Family first. Friendships tended like a garden — with time, with honesty, with cups of tea on the doorstep. She showed love through acts of kindness — a casserole at the right moment, a lift, a text that said, “I’ve got you.” She was nurturing and open, and she was devoted to the kids in her life — fiercely, protectively, with that wonderful mix of mischief and care. What we will miss most is obvious: her laugh, her fearless foolishness, that switch-on magic that filled a space. But we will also miss the steadier gifts: the way she noticed what needed doing and just did it, the way she solved things — sometimes chaotically — and somehow made it all come right in the end. If there is comfort today, it’s this: Lauren’s life was not a single note. It was a chorus — bright, messy, generous, brave. We honour her best not by perfect words, but by living a little more like she did. Be open. Be kind. Say what you mean. Make something out of nothing. Invite people in. Walk the dogs and be silly. Thank you, Lauren, for the laughter, the graft, the care, and the love. You made rooms brighter and gardens grow. We’ll keep that light going, in parks and kitchens and among friends who choose each other — honestly, wholeheartedly — the way you did. Rest now, Loopy Lauren. We’ll carry the show from here.