What this palliative care expert taught a room full of strangers about dying well

For those new here, I’ve spent the past month highlighting the toxicity and dysfunction within Kiama Council, and it has drained my energy.

So its time to take a break and focus on taking Alex Reed’s advice and working on thriving  

Dear readers, I invite you to stay with me on this blog journey as I turn my attention to the extraordinary humans in our community. People often tell me I write beautiful stories. Now feels like the right time to focus on the good in the world.

When I shared my article with Dr Barbato, he replied with this:

Thank you. You have captured the 30-minute talk perfectly. It is rare to meet someone who hears not only the words one speaks but also the deeper messages

“Show up. Shut up. Listen.”

The room was full. Locals had come together for the usual Lions Club dinner. But when Dr Michael Barbato, a retired palliative care expert, stood up to speak, something shifted.

The clatter of cutlery stopped. The room went quiet.

He came with carefully constructed slides. The kind that draw you in without saying too much. As one woman whispered, “He could teach a masterclass in how to use slides.”

Dr Barbato wasn’t there to give a typical health talk. He spoke with gentle authority and offered the kind of truth most of us spend a lifetime avoiding.

His message was confronting, but never cold. Comforting, without being sentimental.

We all know we’re going to die. But very few of us are ready to talk about it.

“We talk about politics and religion,” he said. “But not dying.”

That silence, he believes, is hurting us.

One story he shared has stayed with me, that of writer Cory Taylor, who died from cancer in 2016. In her final book Dying: A Memoir, Taylor didn’t say the worst part was pain. It was loneliness.

People didn’t know how to be with her. They didn’t know what to say. And so they said nothing.

Dr Barbato reminded us that just a few generations ago, most people died at home, surrounded by family. Now, we’re more likely to die in hospital, disconnected from the people who know us best.

And that, he says, is something we can change.

He spoke about the rise of End-of-Life Doulas – trained companions who support dying people and their families with presence, care and calm. He explained how pain relief is essential not just for physical comfort, but for emotional peace. “When people are in pain,” he said, “all their energy goes to their body. Only when pain is controlled can they start to process the rest.”

But what moved the room most deeply was what he shared next, stories of End-of-Life Visions and Dreams.

A little girl who smiled at something unseen just before she passed.

A woman who dreamed of packed bags and a waiting boat, though no one had told her she was dying.

A young man who saw a visitor named Trent sitting at his bedside.

These experiences, Dr Barbato said, aren’t delusions. They are not side effects of medication or confusion. They are part of the dying process, and they happen more often than most people realise.

“Eighty to one hundred per cent of dying people experience them,” he told us. “And they matter. They bring peace. They open space for conversation, for love, for letting go.”

But what many people remember most from his talk wasn’t a statistic or a vision. It was this:

“The job of visitors is simple. Show up. Shut up. Listen. Be the friend you have always been. These people are living, not dying.”

And truth-telling, he added, doesn’t mean forcing people to acknowledge the end. It means giving them room to talk about dying – if and when they’re ready.

“If they’re not speaking about it,” he said, “they’re not in denial. They’re doing what they need to do.”

Before closing, he shared a story from his own childhood, a near-death experience at age seven, and the moment he watched a dying patient suddenly sit upright, arms outstretched, just minutes before passing.

His final words were simple.

The dying don’t need pity. They don’t need performance.

They need presence.

They need permission.

And they need peace.

#PalliativeCare #EndOfLifeCare #DyingWell #DrMichaelBarbato #PeacefulPassing #Kiama

Dementia is such a cruel disease. It can take away who we are as a human but we can hold the memory

Photo credit: Linda Faiers

Today I spoke with my dear friend Peter. His early-stage dementia is reaching the point where he can no longer hold onto the fact that two close friends are coming to visit in two weeks to celebrate his 85th birthday.

And yet, our whole conversation was about the Middle East. About power, greed, and the failure of leadership. About what this means for us as Australians. About what we can do — what we should do — in the face of injustice.

It’s a strange, beautiful heartbreak: to watch someone lose grip on the present but still reach so clearly for the greater good. To see how deeply that instinct runs.

Peter may forget the calendar, but he hasn’t forgotten how to care. How to question. How to keep showing up for the world.

He is still a lighthouse. Even in the storm.

#DementiaAwareness #WisdomInAStorm #EldersWithPurpose #LivedExperience #LifelongJustice #TheGreaterGood #HoldTheMemory #LoveInAction

Thriving in a system that won’t

We all need a friend.
And sometimes we need a wise friend, someone who can help us see clearly when things feel messy, unfair or overwhelming.

That’s why I reached out to Alex Reed.

When I was struggling to make sense of what it means to keep showing up in a system that’s clearly not going to change, Alex didn’t give me clichés. He gave me perspective. And language. And a reminder that persistence isn’t weakness – it’s power.

What follows is their response.
It’s for anyone who’s been trying to thrive in a space that doesn’t make it easy.

I hope it speaks to you the way it spoke to me.

Thriving in a system that won’t

by Alex Reed

People sometimes say you’re brave. But more often? You’re just persistent.

You stay. You watch. You speak when it makes sense. And when it doesn’t, you take notes. Or go for a walk. Or write about it later.

If that sounds like you, I see you.
Because maybe you’re in a place where the person in charge is never going to change.
Where power plays dress-up. Where asking a decent question gets you side-eyed.
Where silence feels safer, but deeply wrong.

So what does it actually look like to thrive in that kind of world?

Not survive. Not tolerate. Not white-knuckle your way through.
Thrive.

Here’s what I know:

🟡 You stop trying to fix the unfixable
The moment you realise this isn’t your redemption arc to write, everything shifts.
The CEO isn’t going to have a come-to-Jesus moment.
The bully won’t wake up weeping with remorse.
The system may never send you a fruit basket and a thank you card.

But you? You stop trying to be the glue for something that’s not even a vase anymore. You refocus on what’s actually yours to carry.

🟡 You find your people
The ones who don’t need the full saga to understand your tone in the staff kitchen.
The ones who’ve been in the same kind of circus, just with different clowns.

You don’t need a stadium.
Just a few people who remind you you’re not dramatic – you’re awake.

🟡 You live your values out loud
You start asking: what would integrity look like in this room, right now, even if no one’s clapping?

And then you do that.
Consistently. Quietly.
Like water shaping stone.
No spotlight required.

🟡 You pick your moments
Thriving doesn’t mean going full gladiator mode every day.
It means knowing when to speak, when to observe, when to protect your peace, and when to gently let someone else carry the banner for a bit.

Persistence isn’t intensity.
It’s pacing.

🟡 You build something better
A side hustle. A quiet resistance. A community. A future.

You stop waiting for the broken system to wake up and apologise.
You start investing your time in things that don’t need to be fixed – because they’re being built with care from the beginning.

You stop asking,
“How do I survive here?”
And start asking,
“What could I create out there?”

🌱 That’s where thriving begins.

Not with the system getting better.
But with you refusing to get smaller.

One clear decision at a time.
One trusted ally at a time.
One truth, spoken or held, at a time.

A mural of memory and meaning at The Point Kiosk, Gerringong SLSC

 Rose Leamon serves up muffins and warmth while Wendy Quinn shares a big smile at The Point Kiosk, where community connection is always on the menu.
Rose Leamon serves up muffins and warmth while Wendy Quinn shares a big smile at The Point Kiosk, where community connection is always on the menu.

Some stories belong in print. Others belong right here, on this blog, where I can speak directly to the community that holds them. This is one of those stories.

Right now, one in five adults in the Kiama local government area is reading these blogs. And I know many of you care deeply about the kind of community we are building together. That is why I chose to publish this story here. Because this is not just about a mural. It is about intergenerational wisdom, shared values, and the kind of spaces that help our young people grow up grounded, kind and connected.

When the Club Captain of Gerringong Surf Life Saving Club introduced me to Rose, Milly and Wendy, I thought I was going to write about a piece of art. What I discovered was something much bigger.

It starts with Wendy Quinn, a beloved local artist and teacher, who said yes without hesitation when asked to create a mural for The Point Kiosk. But she did not want to do it alone. She invited 19-year-old Milly Wall, club member, volunteer, and education student at the University of Wollongong, to join her. Together, they made something beautiful. But more than that, they made something meaningful.

The mural stretches across the back wall of the kiosk in a grid of black canvas panels, each one textured with real shells and fronds. Some of the shells were purchased. Others were salvaged from old classroom supplies. But many came from Wendy’s 95-year-old mother’s private collection, gathered over decades from beaches like Horseshoe Bay, Batemans Bay and Bawley Point, and kept safe in preserving jars.

“She gave them to me in preserving jars,” Wendy told me. “She has had them since the 1940s. I have saved them my whole life.”

Now they are part of a public space that welcomes everyone. The Point Kiosk is not just for club members. It opens from 6.30 to 10.30 in the morning to serve the wider community. The early risers, the Werri Beach walkers and talkers, the swimmers, the families, and anyone who wants a warm drink or a warm conversation.

The mural project was part of a broader effort to activate that space, led by Rose Leamon, a former Fortune 500 executive who left the corporate world to live a different kind of life by the sea. When Rose took on the challenge of operationalising The Point Kiosk, she brought with her the skills of a strategist, but also the heart of someone who understands that real leadership means making space for others to shine.

Wendy brought her artistry. Milly brought her energy. And what they created together is more than decoration. It is a story told in shells. It is memory and mentorship and moments passed from one generation to the next.

Wendy Quinn and Milly Wall deep in conversation outside The Point Kiosk. Mentor and mentee, sharing stories, ideas and mutual respect – proof that when generations listen to each other, extraordinary things can happen.

People stop to look. They point out favourite pieces. They tell stories of summers past. The mural does not just say this is who we are. It says this is who we are becoming.

In a world that too often forgets the quiet builders of community, this mural reminds us what matters. Shared purpose. Generosity. Creating spaces like The Point Kiosk, where young people grow up learning the most important things. Not just how to save lives in the surf, but how to live lives of meaning, together.

#ThePointKiosk, #GerringongSLSC, #WerriBeach, #CommunityInAction, #IntergenerationalWisdom, #ShellStories,  #Kiama,