How to Talk to Your Young Child about Death
Death can be a tricky subject to navigate, whether it arrives as a stark reality to deal with or just an abstract concept to consider. I spent my first forty years or so experiencing it as the latter, as I was fortunate to never unexpectedly lose a loved one. The passing of each of my grandparents came gradually, and with enough time to say goodbye; and though I was naturally sad to lose them, something about their departure felt natural and ultimately peaceful. Thanks, in part, to my own parents, I grew up viewing death as a natural and inevitable part of life; not only did they reinforce those thoughts explicitly, they also taught me to live life without a fear of death— or anything else, for that matter.
Then, a couple of years ago, I lost my youngest brother, Joseph, quite unexpectedly. I received the call from my parents on, of all days, my son’s third birthday. For the first time in my life, I had to address death with jarring directness— and I had to do it as a father. Not only would I need to manage and process my own grief for the very first time, I would have to do it with my son witnessing it all; which meant my actions and reactions would hold a weight beyond just me, shaping his views and opinions of death. It also meant I would have to talk to him about death (at least a little bit), not just as an abstraction, but as a reason he would no longer spend time with his “Uncle Dodo,” whom he loved very much. It was an intimidating scenario for a relatively new father, and one I did not feel anywhere near up to at the time.
The reality of that process, however, was remarkably and unexpectedly easy and natural. When my son would see my tears and ask me why I was crying, my vulnerability had stripped me of my ability to filter or sugar-coat or weave my typical stories to explain the unexplainable. I could only be honest and tell him why. His own responses to my grief were so pure and beautiful that recalling them brings fresh tears to my eyes.
“I’m sorry Dada,” I can remember him saying.
He didn’t proceed with a typical barrage of difficult questions, as I feared he might. He didn’t struggle to understand what I was going through, or what had happened to his uncle. His compassion and sympathy were so unconditional and beautiful, he didn’t need to deeply understand why I was sad— only that I was sad and in need of comfort. I am so incredibly grateful to have had the gift of his love during that challenging time.
Since that loss, as he has grown up, my son has asked deeper, more involved questions about his uncle’s death, and about death in general. His younger sister, who (as we all know) emulates everything her brother does, has listened, and then formed her own questions. Thanks to the open, honest foundation we built in those first days, my wife and I have felt quite at ease discussing the subject with our children. Much like the house I grew up in, ours is a safe space to talk about what it all might mean. We share what we each believe (which are differing beliefs), we share what others believe (offering as many perspectives as we can unearth), and ultimately, we explain that no one really knows. We talk about the scary things, the strange things, and the hard-to-understand things; and what I have witnessed is that this process has given each of my children the freedom to decide what they each believe.
The absolute miracle is that whatever they believe, they are entitled to be right; just like you and I are.
Moreover, I have learned (and continue to learn) a great deal about grief from answering their questions, and having to talk about it with them has satisfied so much of that process for me. When my son would ask us, for example, where Uncle Dodo went after he died, we would tell him he went into the sky. My wife and I are not religious, so I wouldn’t say “the sky” was supposed to be heaven, necessarily; truthfully, it was just the simplest way we could think of to explain our own complex beliefs to a small child, while still leaving the truth open to his own interpretation and understanding. Months later, he told a stranger, “Uncle Dodo lives in the stars now,” which sounded just fine to me.
Sometime after that, as I was walking my dog late one night, I felt a wave of emotion wash over me, and for some reason, my mind went to Joseph. Inexplicable tears in my eyes, I looked up, and directly above me hung the constellation Orion. As I gazed at the figure outlined in the stars (it’s a constellation I’ve always known well), I was overwhelmed by the feeling that it was him looking down on me. It filled me with joy, and I remember actually laughing aloud through my tears. After a moment, a sense of peace settled over me, and I continued on my walk. To this day, and for the rest of my life, I know that when I see Orion, Joseph is there with me.
As parents, we usually put our children first; their feelings, their needs, their answers often need to be satisfied before we can address our own. But it’s incredible to experience the moments when they remind us that they are beautifully whole individuals in their own right, capable of giving us compassion, understanding, and patience— even at the ages when those qualities may seem out of reach. Being honest with them, and showing them our truths, even when they’re not pretty, can be scary and difficult; but it can also lead to intimacy and revelation we didn’t realize were possible.
I believe that sharing the grieving process with my children helped them better understand death, and prepared them for a time when they would have to deal with it themselves; but I also know that sharing that process helped make me whole again.
By Johnny Gnall