As a minister and celebrant, people often see the calm, polished version of me. The person standing at the front, holding the room together, and guiding families through some of the most emotional moments of their lives. From the outside, it can sometimes look effortless.

But behind every service is a human being who cares deeply, carries responsibility, and wants everything to go exactly right. And sometimes, despite all the preparation, experience, and care in the world, mistakes happen.

The weight of wanting to get it right

Funerals, weddings, memorials, and celebrations of life are not ordinary occasions. They matter deeply because these moments stay with families forever and become part of their story.

I understand the trust people place in me. I’m often invited into a family’s most vulnerable moments, hearing private stories, carrying treasured memories, and trying to give voice to emotions that can be difficult to express.

Because of that, I place enormous pressure on myself. I want every detail to feel right. I rehearse names, double-check dates, carefully plan timings, and think about every pause, every word, and every transition.

There is a quiet responsibility that comes with this role. When someone trusts me to lead a service for a person they love, I feel that responsibility deeply. I know that the words spoken and the atmosphere created will stay in their memory long after the day has passed.

Even with all that preparation, I’m still human. No amount of experience removes the desire to get everything right, especially when emotions are high and the meaning behind the day is so important.

When something goes wrong

Sometimes a word comes out wrong. A page may be missed. A name may be spoken too quickly. Music may not start when expected, or a line may disappear from memory.

At times, it is a small stumble that only I notice. Other times, it feels bigger. In those moments, time can seem to stand still.

My heart races, and my mind quickly tries to correct itself. While I continue speaking, part of me is already replaying the moment in my head. I wonder if people noticed, or whether I’ve somehow let someone down.

What I’ve learned over time is that I often remember these moments far more than anyone else does. Families are rarely focused on the tiny details. They are focused on how they feel, on the person they are remembering, and on the comfort of having someone guide them through such an emotional day.

When I step back and look at it honestly, I realise that what matters most is not whether every word was perfect, but whether people felt supported, cared for, and understood.

The emotional side of this role

Many people don’t realise how emotionally invested I become in the services I lead. I don’t simply read words or stand at the front of a room. I carry stories.

I often spend hours learning about a life, understanding family relationships, hearing memories, and carefully creating something personal. By the time the service arrives, I genuinely care about the people sitting in front of me and the person we are there to honour.

So when a mistake happens, it can sit heavily. There is often an inner voice that quietly says, “You should have done better.” Because I care deeply about this work, mistakes rarely feel small.

Sometimes, after a service, I replay every detail in my mind. I think about a missed sentence, a stumble, or a moment I wish I had handled differently.

But I’ve come to realise that this feeling rarely comes from ego. It comes from love, responsibility, and wanting to honour someone properly. When you care deeply about what you do, it is natural to carry those moments with you.

Families see more than perfection

The truth is, families rarely expect perfection. They are not looking for a flawless performance.

What they are often looking for is someone genuine, compassionate, and someone who understands the weight of the day.

A small pause, a slip of the tongue, or a moment of emotion often makes me appear more human, not less. In many ways, authenticity matters far more than perfection.

People remember connection. They remember that I listened, that I cared, and that I spoke from the heart. They remember how they felt in the room, not whether every sentence was delivered without fault.

Over time, I’ve realised that what feels like a mistake to me is often barely remembered by anyone else. Families remember kindness, warmth, and the feeling of being held through a difficult moment.

Learning to be gentle with myself

One of the hardest lessons in this role has been learning to forgive myself.

I can be incredibly hard on myself because I understand the importance of what I do. I hold myself to high standards, not because I want perfection, but because I want to honour people in the best way I can.

But perfection isn’t realistic. I’m a human being standing in deeply emotional spaces.

At times, I may be carrying my own grief. I may be balancing multiple services or supporting several families at once.

And still, I show up. I prepare. I care. I give my best.

That matters.

A mistake doesn’t define the service. What defines it is the intention behind it.

It took me a long time to realise that everything doesn’t need to be perfect. What matters most is doing your best, being humble, human, and honest.

Mistakes don’t mean I’ve failed. They simply show that I care, that I’m present, and that I’m real.

In many ways, mistakes remind people that I’m human. I’m not a robot. I’m not AI-generated. I’m someone standing in front of a family, trying to honour a life with sincerity and compassion.

Perhaps that honesty matters more than perfection ever could.

The quiet truth about this work

The services I remember most are not always the ones that went perfectly. In truth, the moments that stay with me are often the ones where something real happened. A family laughing unexpectedly through tears, a shared silence that filled the room, or a moment where emotion simply could not be hidden.

Those are the services that feel deeply human. They are not polished performances or carefully rehearsed productions. They are honest moments when grief, love, memories, and emotion coexist.

Over time, I’ve come to realise that these moments matter more than perfection ever could. They remind me that a service is not about delivering something flawless. It is about creating space for people to remember, reflect, and feel supported.

Sometimes, slipping over a word, pausing to collect myself, or showing emotion simply reminds people that I’m human too. And perhaps that human connection is what makes a service feel real.

Final thoughts

I think many people wonder whether celebrants and ministers feel the pressure of getting it right. The answer is yes.

I care deeply about every service I lead. I want to honour every life in the best way I can, and because of that, I sometimes carry the smallest mistakes longer than anyone else.

But over time, I’ve learned that people rarely remember perfection. They remember kindness, compassion, presence, and the feeling that someone truly cared.

Perhaps that is what matters most. Not delivering something flawless, but standing in front of people with honesty, warmth, and sincerity.

Because at the heart of this work, I’m not there to perform. I’m there to support, to guide, and to help tell a story that deserves to be remembered.

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Written by Jon Matson-Higgins, Minister & Celebrant based in Lincolnshire, Cambridgeshire, Norfolk, Suffolk, Rutland and Northamptonshire