How Children Experience Grief (And What I’m Learning)

There’s a quiet assumption that grief looks a certain way

Tears

Sadness that stays close to the surface

A need to talk things through, again and again

Supporting my daughter through loss has gently undone that assumption for me

What I’ve learned is this

Grief doesn’t arrive the same way for everyone. And in children, it often doesn’t arrive in ways adults expect at all

Grief doesn’t always announce itself

When I had the difficult task of sharing bad news with Lilly in the morning, crying myself, I expected tears

I expected questions that would open the door to sadness

I expected emotion to spill out in ways I recognised

Instead, her grief arrived through words, then silence, then imagery

She paused to take my words in

“That is sad,” she said pensively

Another long pause

“That was unexpected”

And then something else appeared alongside it

Another loss

Not the loss of the person we have been talking about – but the sudden absence of her dad, who had to step away to deal with family matters

“Why isn’t daddy here?”

“Why doesn’t he care about us?”

Careful explanation was necessary to not compound her loss

Her experience wasn’t a single event

It was layered

Loss, compounded by change. Sadness, compounded by absence

Looking back, it makes complete sense

At seven, she wasn’t just grieving a person. She was grieving stability

Children often grieve sideways

What struck me most was that Lilly didn’t cry

She spoke

She went quiet

She observed

And then she began to associate – to butterflies, which she strongly connected with the person she had lost

“What animal does Granny like?” she asked, not knowing

That question stayed with me

Children often process grief symbolically – through images, stories, animals, play

It’s how they make something intangible feel safe enough to hold

For Lilly, butterflies became important

They appeared in her thoughts, in her room decorations, and in her birthday party theme that same weekend

Not in a heavy or sombre way – but as something meaningful, woven gently into joy

“I’ve chosen them mummy because I love butterflies and it reminds me of her”

It made me wonder

If I were to suddenly disappear, what would she associate me with?

After some thought, the answer surprised me

A bee

Fragile, but essential

Quietly holding ecosystems together

Creating something nourishing and sweet

Soft, a little cuddly, but easily overlooked

That line of thinking wasn’t morbid. It was grounding

It reminded me how children keep love alive – not by dwelling on loss, but by transforming it into something they can see and carry forward

Grief isn’t one-size-fits-all – at any age

Time has helped me see something important

How I might process grief is not how a child will

How one child processes grief is not how another will

And how we expect someone to grieve often says more about us than about them

Children move in and out of grief

They can be sad, playful, thoughtful, or emotionally charged, all within minutes

That isn’t avoidance

It’s regulation

Adults often interrupt this without meaning to

By trying to make sense of it too quickly

Or by interpreting quietness as distance rather than processing

Or behavioural changes as bad behaviour rather than emotional communication

Space doesn’t mean absence

One of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned is the difference between giving space and withdrawing support

Space is not stepping away

It’s staying close without pressing

Available without interrogating

Present without demanding expression

What matters is how we frame that space

Not “Let me know if you need anything”

But something more like “I’m here when you’re ready”

That subtle shift gives permission

It removes pressure

It keeps the door open

In our case, this approach strengthened my relationship with Lilly

She trusted that she didn’t have to perform grief for me

And in return, she invited me in – in her own time, in her own way

What grief has quietly taught me

This experience didn’t just deepen my understanding of grief in children

It also sharpened my awareness of fragility – personal, environmental, and practical

It reminded me how interconnected everything is

How vulnerable our environment is

How important it is not to be financially dependent on any one person or structure

And it challenged some well-meaning assumptions from others

When people said, “Take all the time you need,” I realised that wasn’t actually what I needed

For me, continuing to work – gently, purposefully – helped prevent my emotions from consuming me

That won’t be true for everyone

But it was true for me

And that matters

A closing reflection

Grief doesn’t have a correct shape

It changes with age, context, personality, and circumstance

And it often looks nothing like we expect

What people need most isn’t instruction

It’s permission

Permission to grieve in their own way

Permission not to perform sadness

Permission to reach for support when – and if – they’re ready

I’m still learning

And I’m learning that noticing, listening, and staying available often matters far more than saying the right thing