A Grief Moment

Written by Tiff / A Grief Moment

Betty

My paternal grandmother, Betty, was my world.

She taught me how to love. She was full of joy, ambition, and a kind of energy that made her presence unforgettable. Her aura was delightful, magnetic, inspiring, motivational, and mesmerizing, all at once. She was the kind of person who could make you feel something simply by being in the room.

My father was in the military, so my opportunities to see her were limited to summer breaks and occasional holidays. I lived for those summer breaks. They meant time with Betty, time to feel understood, and time in a place where I could simply be myself.

I was 11 when I remember our relationship feeling especially significant. I often wished I could live with her permanently. I needed her energy, her comfort, and her guidance more often than our visits allowed.

My household with my mother and siblings felt chaotic to me. I often felt misunderstood, as though the people around me could see my behavior but could not always understand what was happening beneath it. Betty was different. She understood the words I could not express and the feelings I had not yet learned how to name. She filled in the blanks without requiring me to explain every part of myself.

With her, I felt understood.

Looking back, I recognize how important that feeling was to me. She was more than my grandmother. She was someone I could turn to for reassurance, connection, and a sense of belonging.

I did not have the language for any of that at the time. I only knew that being with Betty felt different, and I wanted more of it.

I remember my last summer visit with her in 1994. Something was different. Her physique was frail, but her smile seemed bigger than ever. Her joy was still there. The light I associated with her had not disappeared.

Yet, something did not feel right. I sensed a change, although I could not identify what it meant.

I did not know that this would be my last summer seeing my grandmother alive.

The News That Changed Everything

At the beginning of the following school year, I was called to the school office and given the devastating news that my grandmother had passed away.

I was 13 years old.

I did not fully understand what that meant. I knew people were sad. I knew people were crying. I knew something terrible had happened, and I understood that I would never see Betty again in the same way.

But I did not know how to comprehend the permanence of that loss or what it would mean for my life moving forward.

Everything changed, including the journey to bury her.

Our usual long car rides became a cold plane ride. I remember looking at the blank expressions on my parents’ faces. No one said a word that I can recall. When we arrived in our hometown, our family was gathered together, but the atmosphere was different. Everyone was sad, and I watched the adults around me try to navigate a loss I was struggling to understand myself.

I knew my grandmother was gone, but I did not understand why. I did not know what was going to happen next.

And, as I remember it, no one explained it to me.

I do not share this to suggest that my family did not care. I can recognize now that the adults around me were experiencing their own grief. They had lost someone they loved, too. But as a child experiencing that loss, I needed more than the presence of other grieving people. I needed someone to help me understand what was happening.

I needed words.

A Funeral I Did Not Know How to Navigate

I had never experienced a funeral like that before. I did not know what a funeral was supposed to look like, what my role was, or how I was expected to behave.

I sat back and watched everyone cry.

I received plenty of hugs. Family members embraced me and offered physical comfort, but I do not remember receiving the explanations I needed to understand what was happening. I was surrounded by people who were grieving, yet I felt as though I was observing an experience everyone else understood and I did not.

The funeral was the first time I saw my grandmother during that trip.

As I approached the open casket, I remember thinking about how I had seen something like this on television. But now it was happening to me. This was not a scene I could turn off or walk away from. This was my grandmother.

When it was my turn to approach the casket, I did not know what I was supposed to do. I remember discreetly reaching out and touching her arm.

That was not my grandmother’s arm.

The sensation was cold, numb, and absent of life. I knew the person lying in the casket was Betty, but the physical experience of touching her did not match the grandmother I knew. It was a moment I could not reconcile with the woman whose warmth, smile, and presence had always made me feel safe.

I had only a few seconds before I needed to return to my seat.

But something shifted in those few seconds.

It was after touching her arm that the tears began to trickle from my eyes. I remember not wanting anyone to see me cry. I wanted to be strong. I wanted to do a good job at the funeral.

I do not know why I felt that way. I only remember that I did.

I spotted my grandfather. He looked at me and handed me his handkerchief.

That small gesture has stayed with me.

In that moment, I felt as though I had been given permission to cry. Yet, even with that permission, I could not bring myself to let go. I took the handkerchief, wiped the wetness from the corners of my eyes, and returned to observing the adults around me.

I was trying to make sense of everything without knowing how to ask for the help I needed.

I did not understand why my grandmother was lying in that casket or how the woman who had brought so much life into my world could no longer be part of it in the way she had been before.

I would later learn that breast cancer had taken my grandmother away.

Breast cancer.

That was the first time I remember hearing those words in connection with someone I loved.

And at 13, I was left trying to understand not only death, but the illness that had caused it.

When Grief Came Out as Anger

That year was difficult.

I experienced anger, withdrawal, and depression. I had little patience. I was suspended from school for fighting. My behavior changed, and I struggled in ways I could not fully explain.

At the time, I did not recognize those experiences as grief. I did not know that grief could show up in ways other than crying or appearing sad. I did not understand how losing someone so important to me could affect my behavior, my relationships, and the way I moved through the world.

I only knew that I was different.

The firsts without Betty seemed to hit me like a semi-truck.

My birthday came without a gift from her. I no longer heard from her on the telephone. The holidays arrived without the familiar anticipation of knowing that she would find a way to show up, regardless of where we lived.

Betty had always made sure I knew I was loved. Distance did not seem to prevent her from finding me, connecting with me, or reminding me that I mattered.

After her death, those familiar experiences became reminders of her absence.

I was grieving the person I had lost, but I was also confronting the loss of the comfort, understanding, and connection I associated with her. The world had changed, and I did not know how to navigate those changes.

I was a young adolescent trying to understand an experience that had altered my life, without the language to explain what was happening inside me.

Looking back, I can say something I could not have said then:

I was grieving, and I did not know it.

Understanding Grief Through the Eyes of an Adolescent

Grief is a response to the loss of someone or something significant. Although the death of a loved one is one of the most recognized forms of grief, people can also grieve other meaningful losses, including changes in relationships, identity, routines, security, and belonging.

For children and adolescents, grief can be especially complicated because their understanding of death, their emotional development, and their ability to communicate their experiences are still developing.

Research on children’s understanding of death shows that comprehension involves several related concepts, including the permanence of death, the fact that bodily functions cease, the universality of death, and an understanding of its causes (Speece & Brent, 1984; Longbottom & Slaughter, 2018).

These concepts develop over time and are influenced by children’s experiences, conversations with adults, cultural beliefs, and the ways death is explained to them (Harris, 2020).

Being 13 did not mean I automatically knew how to process the death of someone I loved deeply. I could understand that my grandmother had died without fully knowing how to make sense of the experience emotionally.

I had questions I did not know how to ask. I witnessed reactions I did not know how to interpret. I experienced feelings I did not know how to name.

My story illustrates an important distinction: knowing that someone has died is not the same as understanding what that loss means for your life.

Grief Does Not Always Look Like Sadness

When adults think about a grieving child, they may picture tears, sadness, or a child openly expressing how much they miss the person who died.

But grief does not always look that way.

The National Child Traumatic Stress Network explains that children’s grief responses can vary widely according to their developmental level, personality, previous experiences, and social environment. Reactions may include sadness, anger, anxiety, social withdrawal, and changes in everyday functioning (National Child Traumatic Stress Network, n.d.).

For some children, grief may appear through irritability, difficulties at school, withdrawal from relationships, or changes in behavior. Other children may continue playing, socializing, and participating in familiar activities while experiencing grief in ways that are less visible to the adults around them.

These reactions do not automatically mean that every behavioral difficulty is caused by grief. Rather, they remind us that a child’s behavior is only one part of a much larger picture.

When a child begins fighting, withdrawing, struggling in school, or reacting differently than before, it is worth asking what may be happening in that child’s life.

What have they experienced recently?

Have they lost someone important to them?

Do they understand what happened?

Do they have someone they feel comfortable talking to?

Instead of focusing exclusively on correcting behavior, adults can make room to explore the emotions and experiences that may be contributing to it.

When I reflect on my own adolescence, I wonder what might have been different if someone had helped me connect the feelings I was experiencing with the loss I had endured.

I cannot know what would have changed. But I know that understanding grief could have given me a language for an experience I was struggling to navigate.

The Five Stages of Grief: A Framework, Not a Checklist

Many people are familiar with the five stages of grief associated with Elisabeth Kübler-Ross: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

These stages have become a familiar way of discussing responses to loss. However, they should not be understood as a universal sequence that every grieving person experiences or as a timetable for healing. The American Psychological Association describes the model as nonlinear, noting that these responses do not necessarily occur in a fixed order or for a set period (American Psychological Association, n.d.).

This distinction matters when discussing adolescent grief.

A child who expresses anger is not necessarily moving through a particular stage. A child who does not cry may still be grieving. A young person who seems to be doing well may experience renewed sadness when a birthday, holiday, anniversary, or other reminder brings the loss back into focus.

Grief is personal. It can change over time, and people may experience several emotions at once.

My experience cannot be reduced to a sequence of stages. I remember anger, withdrawal, and depression, but those memories do not establish that I followed a particular model. They reflect what I experienced during a difficult period of my life.

The purpose of understanding grief is not to assign people to stages. It is to recognize that there are many ways to experience loss and that people may need different kinds of support at different times.

Children Are Watching, but They Need the Words

One of the most important lessons I take from my experience is that children observe far more than adults may realize.

I watched my parents’ expressions. I noticed the silence. I saw family members crying. I observed the funeral and the open casket. I noticed how everyone around me was behaving.

I was gathering information, but I did not have enough context to understand what I was witnessing.

Research on children’s understanding of death highlights the importance of conversations, family explanations, cultural practices, and opportunities to ask questions in shaping how children make sense of death (Menendez et al., 2020).

Sometimes, adults avoid conversations about death because they want to protect children from pain. They may be overwhelmed by their own grief, uncertain about what to say, or afraid that an honest explanation will make the situation more frightening.

Those concerns are understandable. Adults do not always have the answers, especially when they are grieving themselves.

But children do not need perfect explanations. They need honest, developmentally appropriate communication and reassurance that their questions are welcome.

When a loved one dies, adults can help by explaining what happened in clear language, describing what the child can expect during a funeral, inviting questions, and allowing the child to express feelings without pressure to respond in a particular way.

Children also benefit from continued conversations after the funeral. Grief does not end when the service is over, and a child may not have the words or questions to express everything they are experiencing in one conversation.

Checking in over time can help children understand that support remains available as their feelings and questions change.

What Does Parental Guidance Look Like in Grief?

I often think about the old PG-13 movie rating and the idea of parental guidance.

The rating was a reminder that some material might require an adult to help a young person understand what they were seeing. It was not necessarily about preventing every difficult experience. It was about recognizing that a child might benefit from context, explanation, and guidance.

I believe grief deserves that same consideration.

Children are watching the adults around them. They notice the tears, the silence, the changes in routine, the empty chair, and the family members who no longer call or visit. They are trying to understand what has changed, even when they do not know which questions to ask.

We cannot always protect children from painful experiences. But we can help them navigate those experiences by giving them honest explanations, reassurance, and room to express what they feel.

Sometimes, a child does not need an adult to make the pain disappear. They need an adult willing to sit beside them and help them understand it.

That guidance might mean explaining that a loved one died from an illness, answering questions about what happens to the body after death, or helping a child prepare for what they may see at a funeral.

It might mean reassuring them that it is okay to cry, that it is okay not to cry, and that there is no single correct way to respond.

It might also mean recognizing that a child who seems angry or withdrawn may need support rather than judgment.

Most importantly, it means continuing to show up after the immediate crisis has passed.

Because children are not simply watching grief happen around them. They are experiencing their own grief, too.

A Moment to Reflect

When I look back on the loss of my grandmother Betty, I remember the love she gave me, the comfort I found in her presence, and the emptiness I experienced after she was gone.

I also remember being 13 years old and trying to navigate an experience I did not understand.

I received hugs. I was surrounded by family. I attended the funeral and watched the people around me grieve. But I did not have the language to explain my own experience, and I did not know how to ask for the guidance I needed.

My grandmother taught me how to love. Her presence helped me feel understood in ways I could not always explain, and the memory of that connection has stayed with me.

Losing her changed my world.

Looking back, I recognize that I was grieving long before I understood what grief was. The anger, the withdrawal, the difficulty I experienced that year, and the pain of all those firsts without her were part of a larger experience I could not yet put into words.

I share this reflection not to assign blame to the people who were grieving alongside me, but to bring attention to the experience of the child who is grieving, too.

Adults may be focused on managing their own heartbreak, making arrangements, supporting other family members, and finding the strength to get through the day. In the midst of all that, a child’s need for explanation and emotional support can be overlooked, even when the child is deeply loved.

Children need us to remember that they are part of the experience, not simply witnesses to it.

They may not know what to ask. They may not understand why their feelings are changing. They may not be able to explain why they are angry, why they have withdrawn, or why a seemingly ordinary moment suddenly reminds them of the person who died.

But we can ask.

We can listen.

We can explain.

And we can remind them that they do not have to understand everything at once.

My grandmother Betty remains an important part of the foundation behind what I do. The love she gave me continues to shape the way I think about connection, understanding, and the importance of helping people find words for experiences they may not know how to express.

Through this reflection, I hope to encourage parents, caregivers, educators, and other adults to look beyond what they see on the surface when a child experiences loss.

Because sometimes, the child who appears angry is hurting. The child who has withdrawn may be overwhelmed. And the child who sits quietly and watches everyone else may be trying to understand what no one has explained.

I was that child.

And I believe every grieving child deserves the opportunity to be seen, heard, supported, and guided through a loss they may not yet know how to navigate.

Give yourself a moment to pause, reflect, and process.

References

American Psychological Association. (2018, April 19). Stages of grief. In APA dictionary of psychology. https://dictionary.apa.org/stages-of-grief

Duncan, D. A. (2020). Death and dying: A systematic review into approaches used to support bereaved children. Review of Education, 8(2), 452–479. https://doi.org/10.1002/rev3.3193

Kentor, R. A., & Kaplow, J. B. (2020). Supporting children and adolescents following parental bereavement: Guidance for health-care professionals. The Lancet Child & Adolescent Health, 4(12), 889–898. https://doi.org/10.1016/S2352-4642(20)30184-X

Longbottom, S., & Slaughter, V. (2018). Sources of children’s knowledge about death and dying. Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society B: Biological Sciences, 373(1754), Article 20170267. https://doi.org/10.1098/rstb.2017.0267

Menendez, D., Hernandez, I. G., & Rosengren, K. S. (2020). Children’s emerging understanding of death. Child Development Perspectives, 14(1), 55–60. https://doi.org/10.1111/cdep.12357

National Child Traumatic Stress Network. (2014). Helping school-age children with traumatic grief: Tips for caregivers. https://www.nctsn.org/resources/helping-school-age-children-traumatic-grief-tips-caregivers

Speece, M. W., & Brent, S. B. (1984). Children’s understanding of death: A review of three components of a death concept. Child Development, 55(5), 1671–1686. https://doi.org/10.2307/1129915