How to Help Kids Handle Grief

When You’re Drowning in It Too

Today I have the honor of collaborating with

Danusia Malina-Derben

, author of the Substack, Parents Who Think. While visiting PWT, you’ll find provocative pieces deeply examining parenthood. Danusia is an award-winning podcaster, big time business consultant, and author of the books NOISE: A Manifesto Modernising Motherhood, and SPUNK: A Manifesto Modernising Fatherhood. And she’s a mother of 10.

Danusia brings her parental authority, wisdom, and raw experience to talk to us about the complexities of encountering death as a parent. Whether you’re childless, childfree, or also a mom in the trenches, there are gems here for us all.

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First, Let’s Get Real About This.

When we talk about grief, we tend to focus on the Big Deaths—the grandparents, the parents, the people who raised us. But for a child, the first real, gut-wrenching, world-shattering loss might not be a person. It might be a dog.

That’s what happened in our family when we lost Dickie van der Sausage —our absurdly tiny, rabbit-sized dachshund who strutted around like a Great Dane. Dickie wasn’t just a pet. He was a full-blown family member, a creature so loved that his absence hangs in the air.

And the way my kids grieved? It wasn’t in Hallmark-movie fashion, with quiet tears and comforting pats on the back. It was different for every single one of them because each child rode their own grief rollercoaster.

Grief Hits Different For Everyone. Let It.

When Dickie died, my youngest (triplets) didn’t grieve the same way. No one does. Here’s how it went down:

- One child cried so hard they couldn’t breathe. Full public sobbing. No shame. No filter. Just pain, out in the open.

- Another went mute and furious. Not crying, not talking, just seething. Short-tempered. Snapping at everyone.

- The third? Stopped eating for two weeks. Not because they were being dramatic, but because their body just... shut down. Their throat literally wouldn’t take food. It took me days to realise: this is grief too.

There is no right way to grieve. Some kids cry. Some rage. Some stop eating. Some act like nothing happened until one day, six months later, they melt into a puddle over breakfast. The best thing you can do? Let them do it their way.

What About You? Yeah, You Matter Too.

Let’s talk about parents for a second. Because Dickie wasn’t just theirs—he was mine.

When he died, I got into our car and howled. Not a single, poetic tear down the cheek. No. Full-blown, primal, guttural, grief. The kind I hadn’t let out since my stillborn daughter died.

And here’s the truth: my kids saw me do it.

I could’ve hidden it. Swallowed it down. Put on my “strong mum” mask. But that’s a lie, and I don’t lie to my kids about grief. They need to know that feeling things doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.

“Children and dogs are as necessary to the welfare of the country as Wall Street and the railroads." – Harry S. Truman

Yeah, people write off dogs as “just pets.” But if you’ve ever seen a kid lose their dog, you know better. Dogs are confidants. They’re safe spaces. They’re unconditional love wrapped in fur. When they’re gone, the hole they leave is real.

Answer Every Hard Question. Don’t Flinch.

None of my kids sat me down for a big “Where do we go when we die?” talk. Maybe that’s because I’ve never dodged a hard question in my life. Maybe it’s because I made sure they knew there were no off-limits questions.

But if your kid asks? Answer them.

- Is Dickie coming back? No. He’s not.

- Does it hurt to die? We don’t really know. But we know he didn’t suffer.

- Will I ever stop feeling this sad? No, but it’ll change. You won’t always feel this way.

If you don’t know the answer? Say that. Kids can handle the truth way better than they can handle a sugarcoated lie.

Now, The Most Important Part: What Comes Next?

Here’s where grief turns into something bigger. You take your time. You let it gut you. And then you turn it into something that means something.

And guess what? My kids are already doing that.

Dickie’s whole thing was freedom. He roamed the fields surrounding our house, tiny legs pumping, ears flapping, just gone on some grand adventure.

So now? We Travel for Dickie.

That’s what the triplets have decided. We roam. We adventure. We honour the way he lived by living fully.

That’s what grief does. It doesn’t just take. It teaches. It gives us something back, if we’re willing to take it.

So, What Do You Do?

Here’s your action plan:

✅ Let your kid grieve however they need to. No forcing, no fixing. Just space.

✅ Let yourself grieve too. Your pain matters. Show them what it looks like to feel and survive it.

✅ Tell the truth. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

✅ Find a way to honour the loss. Let it change you. Let it be part of your story.

Grief is brutal. But if we let it, it shapes us into something stronger. Something wiser, softer, more alive.

And isn’t that exactly what our lost ones would want?

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