Example 1: Daughter, warm celebration of life, about 4 minutes
547 words · about 4 min spoken
My name is Claire, and I am Diane LeBlanc’s daughter. Thank you for being here today to remember my mom. I know many of you sat in her basement salon at least once, and probably told her things you never expected to share in a hairdresser’s chair. She had a way of making people feel at ease, and a way of remembering every little detail you told her—along with your birthday, your kids’ names, and which kind of cookie you liked with your tea.
We’re here because my mom was the kind of person who made everyone feel like family. Whether you called her Diane, Di, Auntie, or Grammie, you knew she cared about you. She grew up in a fishing village on the Bay of Fundy, the only girl with four big brothers. Maybe that’s where she learned to hold her own and keep calm when things got wild—whether it was at home, or when someone’s perm went sideways.
At eighteen, she moved to Moncton to train as a hairdresser. She met my dad, Marc, and married him in 1977. They raised my brother Luc and me in that little house where she opened Diane’s, her basement salon. She cut hair, listened to stories, and somehow managed to keep track of an ever-growing list of birthdays. Every year, she sent real cards to around 80 people, each one carefully written, each kid’s with a toonie taped inside. I still don’t know how she did it.
There are so many things I’ll always picture when I think of my mom. Her swimming in the ocean every June, even when the water was so cold the rest of us just stood there shivering. Her reading Agatha Christie in the tub, and curling on Thursday nights. Singing Anne Murray at the top of her lungs in the car. And then there was her legendary driving—she named every car after a Beatle, and poor Ringo, the blue minivan, took most of the hits. She insisted she was a great driver, and honestly, we just went along with it.
But what I remember most is her way of gently pushing me to be braver. When I was eight and too shy to speak at school, she started giving me sticky notes every morning, each with one ‘brave word’ to try out that day. By the end of the year, my lunchbox lid was covered with them—‘hello’, ‘thanks’, ‘can I play?’ She never stopped encouraging me. On my first day as a teacher, I reached into my pocket and found a sticky note from her: ‘One brave word. Love, Mom.’
Mom taught me that courage can be quiet and small, but it adds up. She also taught all of us how to listen. People came in for a cut and left feeling lighter, not just because of their hair. She listened, she cared, and she never broke a confidence.
I want to thank my dad, Marc, her partner for 49 years. My brother Luc, her brothers who made the trip from the shore, and the palliative care nurses who let her be herself to the very end—even giving a last trim from her hospital bed.
Mom, here’s my brave word for today: goodbye. And here’s another one: thank you. I love you.
What the writer told Toastful to get this speech
- Speaker
- Claire, daughter
- Personality
- Mom ran a hair salon in our basement for over 40 years, so half of Moncton has sat in her chair and told her their troubles. She was calm in any crisis, a little nosy in the kindest way, and she never forgot a birthday. She mailed real cards to about 80 people every year, with a toonie taped inside for every kid.
- Life story
- She grew up in a fishing village on the Bay of Fundy, the only girl with four older brothers. She trained as a hairdresser in Moncton at 18 and married my dad, Marc, in 1977. In 1981 she opened Diane's, her basement salon, and she raised my brother Luc and me in that same little house. Later she became Grammie Di to three grandkids.
- What they loved
- Swimming in the cold ocean every summer, starting in June when nobody else would go in. Agatha Christie mysteries, which she read in the bath. Curling on Thursday nights. Anne Murray songs in the car, very loud.
- Stories
- When I was eight I was so shy I wouldn't speak at school. Every morning that year, Mom walked me to the gate and gave me a sticky note with one 'brave word' on it to say to someone that day, like 'hello' or 'thanks' or 'can I play?' By June the inside of my lunchbox lid was covered in them. Twenty years later, on my first day as a teacher, I found a sticky note in my coat pocket: 'One brave word. Love, Mom.'
- A lighter moment
- She was a terrible driver who was sure she was a great one. She named every car she ever owned after a Beatle, and Ringo, the blue minivan, has the dents to prove it.
- Legacy
- She taught me that you can be brave one small word at a time. And she taught all of us to really listen. People came in for a haircut and told her things they'd never told anyone, and she never repeated a word.
- Acknowledgements
- My dad, Marc, her husband of 49 years. My brother, Luc. Her brothers, who drove up from the shore. The palliative care nurses, who let her give one of them a last trim from her hospital bed.
- Goodbye
- Mom, here's my brave word for today: goodbye. And here's another one: thank you. I love you.