Children, Death, and the Stories We Tell

We cannot shelter our children from death.

No matter how much we wish we could, death will find its way into their world—through the loss of a grandparent, a beloved pet, or someone else in their community. Trying to protect them by pretending death doesn’t exist doesn’t prevent pain. It creates confusion. It makes the natural feel frightening and isolating.

In our family, we decided early on that death would not be a taboo topic.

We visit cemeteries and read headstones.

We answer their questions, even the ones that make us pause.

We talk about what happens to the body after death, and what each of us believes might happen to the soul.

Because children do ask questions—questions adults often don’t expect:

"What were they wearing when they died?"

"What happens to your skin when you’re buried?"

These aren’t morbid curiosities. They’re part of how children try to understand something vast and mysterious.

And though it can feel hard—so hard—to respond honestly, I’ve learned that silence or half-truths often create more fear.

The boogeyman in the unknown can feel far scarier than the tender truth.

We also talk about grief. And how it can show up long after the moment of loss.

My youngest still experiences what the Good Mourning book calls grief bombs—waves of sorrow over the death of our dog, Lucy.

They come unexpectedly. Intense. Consuming.

And when they do, I don’t rush her through them.

I hold her.

We talk about how much we miss Lucy. How unfair it feels.

We remember her. We look at photos.

We speak of the ways she still visits in dreams, how she’s never truly left our hearts.

Because grief is not something we need to hide from our children.

They need to see us feel it too.

They need to know it’s okay to cry—at school, at home, at work.

That emotions are safe. That feelings don’t need to build up inside until they explode.

We can grieve with them, not separately.

It doesn't hurt them to see us cry.

It helps them understand that it’s safe to cry too.

Funerals are one of the first rituals many children encounter around death—and I believe children should be welcomed there. Not forced, but given the choice.

They deserve the opportunity to say goodbye, in a way that makes sense to them.

Too often we exclude them for fear they’ll be disruptive, or because we think they don’t understand.

But understanding isn’t a prerequisite for belonging.

Ritual teaches meaning over time.

Children grieve differently than adults. They don’t sit in sorrow for hours at a time. They dip in and out—crying one moment, then asking for a snack or running off to play.

But that doesn’t mean they don’t feel it.

And it doesn’t mean they don’t see its impact on those around them.

What they need is space.

Permission.

And support to create their own rituals too—whether it’s drawing pictures, lighting a candle, writing a letter, or placing a flower at a grave.

We can help them name their feelings.

We can give them tools to express what’s otherwise unspoken.

We can remind them, again and again:

You’re not alone in this.

Because death, when held in love, can become a teacher.

And grief, when shared, becomes bearable.