TikTok deathfluencers: a new generation of funeral directors pull back the veil on death

A new generation of TikTok funeral directors is reshaping how the public understands death and the work that happens behind the doors of traditional parlours. Self-described deathfluencers are using social media to demystify the routine in mortuaries, from the moment a death is reported to the moment a coffin is closed, and they have built audiences that range from tens of thousands to more than a half‑million followers.

Jacob Walsh, owner of Casselden & Walsh Independent Funeral Directors in Goole, East Yorkshire, is among the most visible voices. Every morning just after eight, Walsh unlocks the front door, walks past the reception and into the Chapel of Rest, where an altar and seating for 18 set a formal tone. He and his team begin by knocking before entering the morgue and greeting staff by name, a ritual he says helps him stay grounded. They map the day on a white board, slip on a green plastic apron, and speak to the deceased and their families as if they were present. The routine might include washing, shaving and dressing the body for the final journey, with choices ranging from a suit to a onesie, a football shirt or a dressing gown, depending on the person being honoured. If a family asks, music may be played—Elvis, heavy metal, jazz or a preferred song—but otherwise the work proceeds with quiet, steady care. The morticians perform suturing of the mouth with a plastic mouth guard, seal eyelids, and lean on cotton wool to achieve certain effects. It is a process Walsh describes in practical terms, with the goal of a respectful, calm transition for loved ones watching the final farewell.

These insights come from a wave of young professionals who have built large followings on TikTok under monikers such as Walsh’s York‑based persona, the MortuaryTechUK account run by Hayleigh Davis, Hollie James Funeral Directors in Radstock and Freddie Powell from Salford who gained wider fame on a reality show. They describe themselves as empathetic, approachable, and eager to remove the velvet curtain that has long shrouded funeral care. They answer questions about embalming, post-mortems and the practicalities of the process, from why the mouth is sutured to why eyelids are sealed. They explain that certain bones may not break down completely in cremation and that smaller details matter to the living who seek a sense of closure. The overarching message is simple: the more people understand, the less there is to fear.

Hayleigh Davis, known online as MortuaryTechUK, is a freelance mortician and a mother of four from the West Country with hundreds of thousands of followers. Hollie James, who has run her Radstock funeral business for three years, and Freddie Powell, a charismatic younger director from Salford who has drawn a large online following, all echo a similar aim: to demystify death while emphasising care and compassion for families. They describe themselves as caregivers first, educators second, and say their social media presence helps families feel connected to the people who will guide them through an emotional, complicated time.

The creators commonly field questions such as why morticians sew the mouth or seal the eyes, and what happens to bones during cremation. They explain that the aim is not to shock but to educate, to provide reassurance about the steps involved and to show that the process is conducted with respect. They recount some of the more poignant requests families make: football trophies placed in coffins, cigarettes or bottles of alcohol tucked into keepsakes, and even ashes of relatives kept as mementos. They also discuss practical cautions, such as items with batteries that must be removed before cremation. In one anecdote, Walsh recalls that a family once buried a loved one with a mobile phone, noting that it was a touching but unusual request that reflected the person’s life rather than the mechanics of the service. Some families share such items as a way to say goodbye; others simply appreciate the transparency about what is possible and what is not.

Not all reactions to this openness are positive. Some segments of the industry, and some prospective clients, push back against a public-facing, almost performative disclosure of what happens behind closed doors. Critics argue that privacy and dignity can be compromised by widespread online access to such intimate work. The profession has also faced high-profile scandals in recent years, including concerns about how bodies and ashes are handled by some operators. Earlier in the year, a Hull funeral director faced charges related to alleged mishandling of bodies and ashes, and more recently a Leeds practitioner was implicated in taking babies home to a front room. In the face of such incidents, Walsh and others say the industry needs clearer standards and stronger regulation, not to stunt openness but to protect families and the workers who serve them.

The debate extends to the regulatory framework governing funeral care in the United Kingdom. There is a voluntary body, the National Association of Funeral Directors, but the industry is widely described as unregulated in a formal sense. Hayleigh Davis notes that, in practice, anyone can set up a funeral parlour—often with nothing more than a driving licence. This reality underscores the tension between accountability and accessibility, particularly as the public gains unprecedented access to the craft through social media. Proponents of openness argue that increased transparency helps families understand the care they receive and can drive higher standards, while opponents fear misinterpretation or the commodification of grief.

For Walsh, the appeal of sharing knowledge publicly is rooted in care. He speaks of choosing to be present for families, offering a steady hand at a moment of vulnerability. He describes his approach as normalising conversations about death, inviting viewers to see the humanity behind the formalities. The work itself remains demanding: the hours are long, and the job often requires responding to emergencies at any hour. Walsh and Hollie James note that they routinely work 60 to 70 hours a week, including weekends, bank holidays and Christmas Day. When a death occurs, plans can shift rapidly, and staff must drop everything to respond with professionalism and empathy. Yet many in the field insist the hours are a small price to pay for helping families find closure and meaning after loss.

Temperature and handling are as central as the rituals themselves. Mortuary staff often keep bodies at low temperatures to preserve skin and tissue; too cool can cause dryness and mould, too warm can accelerate decomposition. Some cases are complicated by illness, injury or the emotional weight families attach to a final farewell. Even with these pressures, the aim remains consistent: to honour the person who has died and support the grieving loved ones. In Walsh’s accounts and in the wider online dialogue, the message is clear: death care, when done with care, can be a profound act of service, not merely a professional duty.

The rise of TikTok deathfluencers signals a broader cultural shift in how society discusses mortality. For some, the online format helps demystify the work that happens after death and empowers families to participate more fully in the farewell. For others, it raises questions about the line between education and sensationalism. What remains constant is the profession’s core mission: to hold the hands of those who mourn and to safeguard the dignity of the deceased. As the conversation continues online and offline, Walsh and his peers say their chief aim is simple: the more people know about what happens after a loved one dies, the less fear there is in facing that moment. The public, at least, increasingly seems to agree that understanding can be a form of comfort, even in the face of loss.