Puddles of grief - children. When someone is missing and the chair is still there (dealing with grief)

Eva Tam -Systemische Kinderpsychotherapie
Apr 23
7 min read

Updated: May 30

Sometimes someone is suddenly no longer there. And yet the chair at the dining table is still exactly as it was yesterday. The coffee cup may still be in the kitchen cupboard, and your favorite perfume is still on the table – only the person is missing.

For adults, a long, slow journey through the valley of grief begins – with all its phases, questions, pauses, and memories.

Children, on the other hand, grieve differently. Their souls don't pour out long, drawn-out rivers of pain, but rather hop from one small puddle to the next.

Children mourn in puddles – one moment they're there, reflecting everything that was, deep, sad, and dark. And the next moment: evaporated. The sun comes out. Or a butterfly. Or the desire for a milkshake.

It's not that children grieve less—they grieve differently. Differently temporally, differently physically, differently linguistically. Precisely how their inner selves currently understand the world.

While adults are often constantly consumed by grief, giving it space and allowing it to develop (or not), a child sometimes seamlessly transitions from grief to play mode. They may cry because their beloved grandfather has died – and two minutes later, with genuine joy, be clogging the knight's castle toilet with a Playmobil figure. And that's not repression. It's not "distracting themselves," as we often think of it. Rather, it's an expression of a child's still-unfinished, fluid inner world.

Children experience their emotions in waves. Sometimes high, sometimes low. They bubble up, boil over, break down – and then calm down again. Because children live in the here and now, they react immediately. Their grief comes suddenly, without warning, intensely – and passes just as quickly.

"Is Grandpa really small now so he'll fit in the urn?" – a sentence that often makes adults pause. They might chuckle, embarrassed, or perhaps they're briefly speechless. But what sounds bizarre or even macabre to us is often a completely coherent, logical assumption to a child. Children think concretely. When they hear that someone is "going into an urn," they picture exactly that – in pictures, in proportions, in tangible reality. For them, it's not a crazy idea. It's pure logic. Period.

Such questions demonstrate that children's minds don't care about taboos or social conventions. They explore what's known—how big an urn can be, how people could fit inside, how heaven works, or whether there's Wi-Fi. Behind these questions lies no mockery, no humor, but rather a serious attempt to grasp something incomprehensible with the child's imagination.

And therein lies the great challenge—and opportunity—for adults: not to correct or belittle, but to listen. Because these childlike images, however wonderfully unique they may be, are often the first step toward understanding.

This is why childhood grief is a patchwork: colorful, contradictory, and full of its own idiosyncratic logic. It expresses itself not only in words, but also in games, drawings, physical symptoms, or sudden fear.

And that's precisely why children in phases of loss don't need rigid models of grief – they need adults who accept that everything is allowed: laughter, questions, withdrawal, anger, hunger, play, and sudden silence. And none of it is "wrong."

How children at different ages can experience grief

0 to approx. 3 years

In the first few years of life, children don't yet have a concept of "death" in the sense of "gone forever." However, they sense loss – very acutely. When a caregiver is suddenly missing, they react with irritation, restlessness, crying, and changes in sleeping or eating habits. Grief manifests itself primarily physically. Children of this age need a lot of closeness, secure attachment figures, reassurance, and clear, simple words: "Grandma died. She's not coming back. But you're not alone."

3 to 5 years

At this age, the understanding slowly emerges that death has something to do with "being gone" – but often not yet that it is irreversible. Many children believe the deceased could return – or is simply somewhere "else." Death is often personified (e.g., as a figure or in a sleeping state), and magical thinking is strongly developed: children believe they can have caused or prevented something through their thoughts or behavior. Therefore, guilt is also an issue during this phase: "Was I bad? Did Grandpa get a stomach ache because of me?" Children now need a lot of reinforcement that they are not to blame and are allowed to actively say goodbye (e.g., through drawings, flowers, funeral rituals).

6 to 9 years

This is when a realistic understanding of death begins to develop. Children realize that death is final and affects everyone – including themselves. This often gives rise to existential questions and fears: "Will you die too? What will happen if I'm alone?" These fears are normal – but profound. Children need concrete answers, not soothing half-sentences. At the same time, children's reactions fluctuate greatly: between deep sadness, withdrawal, anger, intense concern – and then suddenly: raging, laughing, playing. This is precisely where the "puddles of grief" become particularly intense.

10 to 13 years

Children of this age are already amazingly reflective. They ask philosophical questions and often process loss through intense reflection, writing, or conversation. At the same time, they try to pull themselves together—because they often feel "too big" to cry openly. They are vulnerable yet still seek support. Conversations about rituals, about memories, about what can remain are helpful at this time. And the offer: "You don't have to be strong."

From 14 years

Adolescents often grieve like adults – except that their world is already characterized by upheaval. Grief can be intertwined with a search for identity, emotional turmoil, withdrawal, or even aggression. Some adolescents appear cold, cynical, or sarcastic – a form of self-protection. They often don't want to talk about it – but they want someone there. Unobtrusive. Listening. Open. Here, too, the following applies: Allow feelings, create space, but don't force them. And take what moves them seriously – even if it sometimes hides behind irony.

Common mistakes

A common mistake in supporting children through grief is well-intentioned but misguided protection by adults: not taking children to the funeral, not answering their questions, leaving them out of the loop – for fear they might "suffer too much." But children don't suffer any less when they are excluded.

On the contrary: what they imagine in their imagination can often be much more frightening than reality.

It's important for children of all ages to be able to fully participate in a family bereavement or the death of a beloved pet – only if the child themselves wants to, of course. A conscious goodbye helps them understand the feeling of leaving. Having a task – be it painting a picture, picking a flower, writing a letter, or placing a favorite stone in the grave – can be more healing than any well-intentioned silence.

And one more thing: Phrases like "Grandpa just fell asleep" may be meant to be comforting, but they're deeply confusing. Who says the child can still sleep peacefully afterward? Children need clear words. Death means the body no longer functions. That the heart, lungs, and brain have stopped working. Period.

What many underestimate: Childhood grief can develop into profound resilience – if children are given the chance to truly experience grief. If they are allowed to feel what they feel. If they are allowed to ask questions – even the uncomfortable ones. And if, in the end, they are allowed to do something. Because doing helps. Even for little human hearts.

With shovel, garbage bag and burial order: Our own cemetery of cuddly toys

I still remember exactly what it was like for us – during my childhood in Erftstadt. My brother and I were the neighborhood's unofficial rescue team. With a shovel in one hand and a garbage bag in the other, we would set out whenever we discovered a dead animal: a rabbit, a mouse, a hedgehog, sometimes even a small bird. What for others was simply a sad discovery on the side of the road became the beginning of a celebratory mission for us. Joy arose – I know that sounds a bit morbid! We took the animals home, built coffins from old shoe boxes, painted crosses, and invented names like "Fridoline the Field Mouse" or "Hugo the Hedgehog." The neighborhood children were thrilled – every funeral became a small community celebration. There were speeches, flowers, candles, and usually cake, too. One child played the flute, another had prepared a poem. We stood in a circle, paused, said our goodbyes – and then there was a proper celebration – just the children themselves.

Over time, our garden became a veritable pet cemetery. So many little crosses, so many stories. At some point, my parents said, "This looks like a pet cemetery." And that was the moment they'd had enough. My mother gradually began to take down the crosses. No more animals were allowed to be brought home. No more burials.

But what remained was the feeling: We were allowed to do something. To create something. To do something nice for the little strange animal.

From a child's perspective, their pet deserves a loving, dignified burial. It wasn't just an animal—it was a family member, a comforter, a playmate. It had a name, was part of everyday life, and now leaves a void that can't simply be filled.

Children are subtle, creative, and sometimes wonderfully strange creatures.

They don’t grieve less – they grieve differently.

They need rituals, space, honest words – and every now and then a shoebox and a good dose of imagination.

Because sometimes that's exactly what love is : burying a dead rabbit with all the honors—or your beloved guinea pig "Flocke"—and giving it the most beautiful farewell imaginable. And, of course, a piece of cake to go with it, because who says grief can't have a little fun?

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