Grieving with a toddler in tow

One year ago tonight, my beloved uncle died, shortly after open heart surgery–the start of a deep grieving journey. My daughter was 2 1/2 at the time. She loved him and he adored her. That says something given how selective my daughter was at that age and earlier! As soon as I heard the news, I reached out to therapist friends asking for advice… how do I tell my daughter? And did they have any children’s books that might help her understand?

I navigated my own grief as well as I could with a toddler observing. She is very perceptive and knew if I was sad. As a therapist, I want her to know that all feelings are not only okay, but helpful– but I sometimes worried she was seeing too much sadness, too early in life. But what options did I have? I tried to take time for myself when I could and tried to be brave while showing her it’s okay to cry.

I felt whiplash. One moment, my daughter would ask me (for the 50th time) what happened? Why did he die? I explained concretely that his body broke and the doctors couldn’t fix it. I reminded her again where his body was, when she asked. Then a few seconds later, my daughter would say she wanted to play with play-doh or go swing. She was ready to move on while I was still trying to collect myself and breathe through the pain. I admire her ability to move from one state to another. She is mindful–present–in a way I think many of us forget how to be as we grow up. 

At my daughter’s annual wellness check up, I mentioned our loss to her pediatrician. I stumbled over my words as I explained I hadn’t intended to talk about that. The doctor validated that it’s good I did: “You are a counselor, but you shouldn’t have to be your own counselor.” She listened and agreed with me: if my daughter seemed preoccupied with thoughts about Ron, was losing sleep, or seemed otherwise anxious, I’d seek professional play therapy for her–but otherwise, all signs pointed to my daughter having a healthy experience of grief. We were doing it. Ron would be proud of all of us.

My tears became fewer and farther between. We listened to recordings of him playing guitar and my daughter laughed with joy remembering his performances for her. Most days felt lighter with time. But as grief does, the heavy days snuck up, and my daughter could tell I was sad with the slightest crack in my voice. A pang of guilt hit me as I again questioned how I had handled this but again, what options did I have? What would I tell my clients to do in a similar situation? I knew I’d tell them what I tried to tell myself… take time for yourself when you need to collect yourself, don’t scare her with your sadness… but allow her to see your grief, and see how you move through it–move, and live, with it. Let her see you plant a tree for him, let her hear you talk about him fondly, let her understand that there are many ways to remember, let her hike and ski with you in his honor, let her overhear you asking your spouse for a hug when you need it, let her know that the reason you’re making that recipe is because he loved it… let her share your immense gratitude for your 34 years with him. 

He was always there. And he still is… How could he not be?

Or, in other words, thanks to Grandma Tala in Moana 2 (one of my daughter’s–and my–favorite movies): 

“Together still, just a little different.”

Originally posted on my prior website on January 26, 2025

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