TikTok deathfluencers: a new wave of funeral directors pulls back the curtain

An upstart cohort of TikTok funeral directors is peeling back the velvet curtain on an industry that has long operated behind closed doors. In Goole, East Yorkshire, Jacob Walsh unlocks the door to Casselden & Walsh each morning, steps into the Chapel of Rest, and then knocks on the heavy white door of the morgue. He explains the routine: greet the day’s orders, don a green plastic apron, and call staff and families by name. The morning begins with a wash and a tidy up, followed by dressing the deceased for the final journey—whether in a suit, a onesie, a football shirt, or a dressing gown. If a family has requested it, music may follow—Elvis, metal, or jazz; otherwise, quiet conversation and careful preparation guide the work. The morticians proceed with suturing, eyelid closure, and careful use of cotton wool, which many describe as the trade’s “best friend.” For readers who are eating breakfast, the presenter pauses to acknowledge the unvarnished realities of the job before continuing to describe how the team prepares each body for viewing and cremation.

Today’s discourse centers on a new breed of TikTok 'death-fluencers'—young, social-media-savvy funeral directors determined to remove the fear of the unknown and demystify the trade. Jacob Walsh, who has built a following of more than 25,000 on TikTok as the “Yorkshire Funeral Director,” is at the forefront alongside Hayleigh Davis—aka “MortuaryTechUK”—a freelance mortician and mother of four from the West Country with hundreds of thousands of followers. Hollie James, 25, runs Hollie James Funeral Directors in Radstock, Somerset, and Freddie Powell, a handsome funeral director from Salford, have all emerged as visible voices online, answering questions about why certain steps are taken during embalming, why eyes are sealed, and what happens to bones that don’t fully decompose during cremation. They say their goal is to take away fear by explaining practices that families once encountered only in whispered conversations. They describe daily procedures ranging from stitching the mouth with a curved needle and a mouth guard to placing items chosen by families—such as football trophies, cigarettes, or even ashes of relatives—into coffins as personal tributes. They also recount more unusual requests: a mobile phone once found in a coffin, or the possibility of family members leaving a cherished object behind. They emphasize that care is central to the process and that, for them, the standard of care should be as high as if the deceased were their own loved one. “The more you know, the less there is to fear,” Walsh says, underscoring the movement’s emphasis on transparency and empathy.

The so-called death-fluencers say they want to demystify smells, secondary purges, embalming and post-mortems, and they speak openly about the practical realities of the trade. They describe the use of cotton wool to manage matter and the careful handling required to keep the face relaxed for viewing. They recount that larger bones, such as the skull and vertebrae, don’t fully break down during cremation and may require grinding; they mention the practice of fisting out small “bits” during the cremation process and, in some cases, retrieving gold teeth with a magnet so they can be melted down for charity in the Netherlands. They emphasize that these details are not meant to shock but to help families understand what goes on behind the closed doors of a funeral home.

The movement has drawn both praise and criticism. Supporters say openness helps families feel more informed and less alienated from the process. Critics, however, voice concerns that the industry’s long tradition of discretion protects families’ privacy and public perception. The debate comes amid a string of scandals that have rocked the sector. Earlier this year, Robert Bush, 47, of Legacy Independent Funeral Directors in Hull, was charged with 64 offences relating to 254 victims, allegedly failing to cremate bodies or return ashes to families. More recently, Amie Upton, 38, a self-styled funeral director in Leeds, faced scrutiny after allegedly taking dead babies back to her home and placing them in baby-bouncers to watch television. In the public record, these cases have intensified calls for tighter oversight and accountability in a sector that remains largely unregulated in the United Kingdom.

The industry’s regulatory framework reflects that ambiguity. A voluntary body, the National Association of Funeral Directors, exists, but there is no compulsory government regulator. As Hayleigh Davis notes, “Anyone can set up a funeral parlour; you could do it tomorrow.” Davis says the responsibility spans collections from homes, hospitals, and hospices to coordinating funerals, cremations, and interactions with grave-diggers, all while guiding grieving families through the process. There are no mandatory formal qualifications—just a driving license—and that reality helps explain why the profession attracts people from varied backgrounds. Davis herself previously worked with animals in a zoo before moving into funeral care. Hollie James found the path at age 16 through an apprenticeship after her mother’s death; by 20 she was the youngest funeral director at her firm, and three years later she had started her own company.

For Walsh and his colleagues, the job is a round‑the‑clock vocation. They speak of 60- to 70-hour weeks that spill into weekends, holidays, and even Christmas Day. When a death occurs, the team drops everything to respond—yet not every body is viewed or suitable for viewing. Some remain in the fridge, with tags on, until the service. Temperature and storage conditions matter: too cool and skin becomes dry or mould can form; too warm and the process accelerates. In some cases, patients’ cancer or injury leaves the body deteriorating rapidly, complicating what the family will see.

The personal toll is also clear. Walsh notes that four people under the age of 40 are currently in his care, and Hollie James speaks frankly about how hard it can be to face the loss of young lives—an experience she says delivers a blunt reminder that death is never distant. The young professionals insist that their openness is not meant to sensationalize the profession but to humanize it, to show that care remains at the center of everything they do.

Yet the culture clash remains. The old guard, who emphasize discretion and privacy, question the value of broadcasting death with the same ease as a makeup tutorial or a recipe video. Some potential clients may prefer a more traditional approach. In the end, the participants say, their aim is to empower families and to ensure that the final farewell feels personal, respectful and honest. They maintain that their approach does not erode dignity; if anything, they contend, it reinforces the idea that death care can be compassionate, professional, and accessible.

As for the narrator, the experience has shifted the lens on the industry. The more information the public has, the less there is to fear about what happens when a loved one dies. The four directors profiled here express a shared desire to keep the focus on care, comfort and closure. They say they will continue to invite conversation through their online channels while ensuring that every family receives the high standard of service they expect and deserve. And for those who might wonder what happens behind a funeral home door, they offer a candid view: the work is rigorous, intimate, and ultimately about helping people say goodbye with dignity.