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Tuesday, February 4, 2025

How To Make Space For A Child’s Grief

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When I was about 10 years old, a boy who attended my church died. His name was Antonio and we sang in the youth choir together. He drowned at Blue Lake Park on the 4th of July. I remember singing at his funeral, I remember the pained look on his mother’s face as the undertaker closed the casket. I remember being afraid of riding the paddle boats at Blue Lake Park because what if…what if? But what I don’t remember is anyone asking me how I felt about Antonio dying. I don’t remember anyone at the church sitting the young people down and saying, “We’re here if you need to talk.”

I learned at an early age that tears were something to apologize for, to be ashamed of, to hide. I learned that my sadness was not as welcomed as my laughter. It wasn’t so much what was said to me, it was what adults said to each other about crying. Often, in reference to their own sorrows, I’d hear adults say phrases like:

I fell apart.

I lost it and started crying.

I couldn’t keep it together and burst into tears.

I know for sure the adults in my life cared for me, and I understand now that they were overwhelmed and busy with their adult-sized problems and perhaps their own grief and discomfort. I know how easy it is to be consumed with the day’s To-Do List and occupied with my own worries, but so much about grief is about pausing, is about taking a moment to feel, to mourn, to reflect, to honor. I needed the adults in my life to pause. To take a moment and process what I was feeling.

I do not want to teach a child not to cry, or not to be sad. I want to teach them how to be sad.

So often crying is talked about as a weakness, a thing to avoid, a sign that a person is not okay. But what if crying in response to grief, loss, or drastic change is an indication that we are feeling discomfort in a healthy, normal way? What if tears are not a sign of breaking down but rather proof of having the capacity to endure hardship?

This is at the forefront of my mind when I'm working with young people — whether it's teaching poetry as a writer-in-residence, facilitating grief workshops in response to natural disasters, conducting artmaking workshops for children who have been sexually and physically abused, or engaging with young readers on book tours and author visits. In the many ways I interact with young people, one thing I’ve been reminded of repeatedly is that, yes, they are children, but that doesn’t mean they are not experiencing life with all its ups and downs. Children are simply humans who have not lived long lives. Their understanding of grief might be limited because of their age but their feelings of sadness are real and need to be addressed.

I do not want to teach a child not to cry, or not to be sad. I want to teach them how to be sad. And to show young people healthy ways of coping with emotions, I need to practice these skills myself. I've had to learn to be at peace with sitting with discomfort. Of course I want to have the right answer, and I want to assure them that they will be okay. But having the answer is not as important as having time to listen. I cannot promise them that tomorrow will be better, but I can be there for them and admit that I get sad, too. I can tell them life is full of countless sorrows and an abundance of joys.

What if tears are not a sign of breaking down but rather proof of having the capacity to endure hardship?

And in the same way that I cheer with them when they have accomplished something, just like the times we explode in belly-aching laughter when something is funny, I cry and mourn with them when something is sad. I acknowledge their sadness over losing a loved one, moving, entering a new grade or changing schools, or losing their favorite things because of a fire or hurricane.

Children don’t have a lot of power: They can’t vote, don’t make the rules at home or school, and if they’ve just experienced a major change, they may feel helpless. Whether I am teaching in the classroom, writing books for young readers, or spending quality time with my nieces and nephews, I am asking myself, How do I make space for young people to grieve and process what they are feeling? How do I make healing and grieving an everyday practice? How can I encourage celebration and joy to be a part of grieving? These questions have guided me both professionally and personally, and have inspired me to develop a few concrete ways to connect with the young people in my life who are hurting:

Create art.

Artmaking is one way a child can exercise agency and make deliberate choices. Visual art encourages non-verbal communication and gives an opportunity for the grieving child to express emotions they are not able to articulate with words. Specifically for healing purposes, I recommend collage. Collages can incorporate their loved one’s favorite colors, images and symbols that represent them, and photos. The tearing and ripping of paper and making something out of chaos can help the young person feel empowered. Whereas watercolors, for example, are harder to control and might frustrate the child and make them feel out of control.

Write a poem.

Students in my workshops have written poems that memorialize their grandparents, friends, and victims of mass shootings and police brutality. When I know the content of their poems might delve into their sadness, I offer line starters and encourage them to explore writing formulaic poetry instead of free-verse poetry, such as pantoums, haikus, sonnets, acrostic, and blues poems. This way, there is a framework to guide the writing instead of starting with a blank page. Following the poem’s formula of counting syllables and paying attention to repeating lines works both the left and right brain and the poem becomes a container for the grief.

Make a playlist.

When my mother was in palliative care, I made a playlist of her favorite gospel songs and my siblings and I played them in her hospital room as she transitioned. Later, I made another playlist—one that was more upbeat and eclectic—and I listened to it on repeat the first few months after her funeral. You and your child can collaborate on a playlist and share it with family members and friends. Consider listening to the playlist in the car or while doing chores. The more often it is played and becomes a casual listening experience, the more you are communicating that the loved one who has died can always be remembered and honored in small and big ways. That their presence can be felt and should be evoked every day, not just on special occasions.

Cook or eat a special meal.

I love making my mother’s recipes for friends. It allows me to share a part of her legacy in a simple way. Remember that people who are grieving miss their person every day, not only on holidays or special anniversary markers. Incorporating the favorite dishes and desserts of a loved one can be done any day of the week.

Ask questions & listen with compassion.

I have found that one of the most important things I can do is listen. Providing time for children to ask questions, vent, or share memories reinforces that the grieving process isn’t about making them feel better, necessarily, but letting them know their feelings are valid and that they are not alone in the process. Some of my go-to questions are: What do you miss most about your loved one? How have you changed since your loved one died? What memories about your loved one make you smile?

Join a support group.

Participating in support groups allows the child to meet others who are also grieving. Support groups and individual therapy are also helpful for children who are having a difficult time or showing significant changes in mood and behavior.

Simply check in.

In our fast-paced culture where some of our young people have busier calendars than we, as adults, do, in the midst of drop-offs and pick-ups from sports practice and playdates; as we move from one global crisis to the next, let us take time to pause and ask our children, How are you feeling? Let us be intentional about making space for them to acknowledge and process what is happening in their life — not as a means of taking the pain away, but to say, I see you and all of you matters, your laughter is welcomed and so are your tears.

Renée Watson’s new novel All the Blues in the Sky will be published Feb. 4, 2025. It’s about friendship, loss, and life with grief.

Renée Watson is a #1 New York Times bestselling author. Her novel, Piecing Me Together, received a Newbery Honor and Coretta Scott King Award. Her books include the Ryan Hart series, Some Places More Than Others, This Side of Home, What Momma Left Me, Betty Before X, cowritten with Ilyasah Shabazz, Watch Us Rise, cowritten with Ellen Hagan, and Love Is a Revolution, as well as acclaimed picture books: Maya's Song, The 1619 Project: Born on the Water, written with Nikole Hannah-Jones, A Place Where Hurricanes Happen, and Harlem's Little Blackbird, which was nominated for an NAACP Image Award. Renée splits her time between Portland, Oregon and New York City.



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