A Grief Moment

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A space to pause, reflect, and process. A Grief Moment explores grief, loss, and the human experiences that shape our lives through research-informed education, thoughtful reflection, and meaningful conversations.
  • Grieving the Loss of a Grandparent: A Reflection Through the Eyes of an Adolescent

    Grieving the Loss of a Grandparent: A Reflection Through the Eyes of an Adolescent

    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

  • Grieving the Relationship I Thought I Had: A Reflection on Accountability

    Grieving the Relationship I Thought I Had: A Reflection on Accountability

    Written by Tiff | A Grief Moment

    Introduction

    Sometimes grief asks us to look beyond what we have lost and examine who we became while trying to hold on.

    When a relationship doesn’t unfold the way we hoped, we may find ourselves confronting disappointment, uncertainty, resentment, and parts of ourselves we don’t always recognize. We may grieve the relationship itself, the future we imagined, the sense of security we hoped to find, or the realization that what we believed we had may not have been what we thought it was.

    Grief is commonly associated with the death of someone we love, but the experience of loss can extend into other significant areas of our lives. The American Psychological Association describes grief as the anguish experienced after significant loss, noting that it may also involve regret for something lost or remorse for something done (American Psychological Association, n.d.). Research on romantic relationship dissolution likewise recognizes that the ending of a relationship can bring grief, emotional distress, and changes in how we understand ourselves (Boelen & van den Hout, 2010; Slotter et al., 2010).

    Sometimes, we are grieving something that genuinely existed but has changed or ended. Other times, we are grieving the meaning we attached to something, the expectations we built around it, or the future we believed we were moving toward. Those experiences can overlap.

    This reflection explores what it can look like to grieve a relationship we thought we had while confronting the parts of ourselves that emerged during the process. It is about acknowledging the pain of loss, recognizing the emotions that can accompany it, and taking responsibility for how we respond to that pain.

    It is not about assigning blame. It is about making room for honesty, self-awareness, and the possibility of doing things differently.

    A Reflection on Accountability

    Once I recognized that something wasn’t adding up, I should have responded differently than I did.

    There were things happening throughout the relationship that caused me to pause and question what I was experiencing. My care for the other person, my admiration, and my desire for the best for them made me pay attention to things I felt were hindering their well-being. I didn’t always understand what I was seeing, and I struggled to reconcile what I observed with the explanations I received.

    For a while, I accepted those explanations. But when the same patterns continued, I found myself becoming increasingly uncertain. Eventually, I stopped trusting what I was being told.

    My perspective began to change. I started viewing the other person through the lens of suspicion and anger. I began interpreting the situation as though I was being used, as though my time, energy, and care were being taken from me.

    Looking back, I can recognize that I was struggling with more than uncertainty. I was also afraid of losing the relationship and what I believed it could become. I was holding on to the possibility of a future I wanted while trying to make sense of experiences that challenged that hope.

    I was grieving the possibility of losing the relationship while struggling to accept what the relationship was actually showing me.

    And that is where I have to take accountability for my rage and anger.

    I have to take accountability for how unkind I became. How immature I was. How irresponsible I was with another person’s heart and feelings.

    I regret that.

    This is one of the reasons I recognize the importance of stepping back and doing the work to heal. I need to learn how to deal with uncertainty, particularly in moments when I don’t feel safe in circumstances I cannot control.

    There was a time when I realized that something wasn’t working for me, even though I couldn’t fully explain why. I knew I cared, but I was also experiencing discomfort that I didn’t know how to resolve.

    I should have been able to say, “I don’t know why this isn’t working for me, but I know something isn’t right.”

    Instead, I kept pushing. I kept questioning. I kept getting angry. And eventually, I became someone I didn’t want to be.

    I am a beautiful person inside and out. I know that about myself. I would give a stranger my last.

    But I also recognize that I can become overprotective of myself, and that is something I have to understand more deeply.

    The problem isn’t that I protect myself.

    The problem is when I override myself for someone else.

    And I do that without anyone telling me to.

    I have a tendency to do things I don’t want to do in order to please someone. Sometimes, that’s okay. Sometimes, that’s part of loving someone and making compromises.

    But when I do it for long periods of time, I become resentful.

    And that’s something I have to own.

    I can’t point fingers at someone else for that because no one forced me to keep overriding myself.

    I did that.

    I need to learn how to listen to myself sooner, communicate what I can and cannot do, and stop making sacrifices I don’t have the capacity to make, only to resent someone for the weight of them later.

    That’s something I need to carry with me from this experience.

    I wasn’t made to do anything. The decisions I made were my own, and acknowledging that is part of taking responsibility for my life.

    When Grief Shows Up as Anger

    When people discuss grief, they often refer to the five stages associated with Elisabeth Kübler-Ross: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. However, these stages are not a universal sequence that everyone follows. The American Psychological Association describes the model as nonlinear, meaning that responses may overlap, recur, or occur in a different order (American Psychological Association, n.d.).

    When I reflect on my own experience, I can recognize emotions that remind me of some of these responses.

    There was denial in my willingness to keep holding on to what I hoped the relationship could be, even when I struggled with what I was experiencing.

    There was anger in the frustration I felt when I couldn’t reconcile what I was told with what I observed.

    There was bargaining in the ways I continued trying to make things work, adjusting myself and hoping that if I could understand the situation or find the right answers, I might be able to preserve what mattered to me.

    I am not suggesting that I moved through these experiences in a neat sequence or that every stage applied to me. I am recognizing that grief can involve conflicting emotions, and that sometimes we don’t understand what we are experiencing until we have had the opportunity to look back.

    I was afraid of losing something I cared about. I was also struggling to accept the possibility that the relationship might not become what I had imagined.

    My fear of that loss did not disappear simply because I was becoming frustrated. In some ways, I think my anger made it harder to acknowledge the hurt underneath it.

    And while understanding the emotions behind my behavior matters, it does not excuse the behavior itself.

    Grief can help us understand why we hurt. It does not give us permission to hurt others.

    I have learned that I need transparency in order to feel secure in a relationship. I understand that not everyone is ready or able to offer the level of openness I need. But understanding that doesn’t mean I should ignore my own needs or remain in situations that leave me feeling uncertain.

    It means I have to be honest with myself about what I can and cannot navigate.

    I cannot pretend I am okay with something when I am not okay inside. I can tell myself that everything is fine, but if something doesn’t make sense to me, I don’t simply let it go. I carry it. I revisit it. I marinate in resentment.

    And then, once my capacity is full, I explode.

    That is unfair to anyone I may have a relationship with.

    I don’t want to create an environment where someone feels they have to walk on eggshells around me, constantly wondering whether they are going to do something wrong or make a mistake. I don’t mind mistakes. People are human, and I don’t expect perfection from anyone.

    What I struggle with is the disconnect between what I am told and what I experience.

    That disconnect affects me in ways I am still learning to understand.

    I have learned that I cannot keep saying, “It’s okay,” when it isn’t okay inside of me and then expect myself to eventually feel differently about it.

    I have to speak up sooner.

    I have to ask questions without attacking.

    I have to trust myself when I recognize that something isn’t working for me.

    And if I cannot reach a place where I feel safe and at peace, I have to be willing to walk away rather than remain in the situation, build resentment, and eventually become cruel.

    That is my responsibility.

    No one else can do that work for me.

    Taking Accountability Without Abandoning Myself

    I also have to acknowledge that the way I communicated at times was wrong and may have caused pain. When someone has their own insecurities and vulnerabilities, the way I express my frustration matters. Being hurt does not give me permission to hurt someone else.

    For that, I am sorry.

    Part of taking inventory of my past was trying to understand what had happened and why I responded the way I did. My mind was running nonstop because I wanted answers for everything.

    And that is something I know about myself.

    I struggle with unanswered questions. I struggle with uncertainty. When I cannot make sense of something, I can become so focused on finding an explanation that I lose sight of how my actions affect others.

    I am learning that understanding myself requires more than identifying what triggers me. It also requires examining what I do when those feelings arise.

    I never want to make another person feel less than. I never want my frustration, fear, or disappointment to cause someone else to question their worth.

    That is not how I want to show up in a relationship, whether romantic or otherwise.

    I understand that I became impatient, and that is something I need to work on as part of my healing. Perhaps more patience could have made certain conversations easier. I cannot know that for sure, but I can acknowledge the possibility and learn from it.

    Perfection is not something I look for.

    I have never encountered perfection. Look at me. I am far from perfect.

    I don’t expect perfection from anyone.

    I want to understand the details of another person’s imperfections so that I can adjust accordingly. Tell me who you are. Tell me what you’re good at. Tell me what you struggle with. Tell me where you need help. Tell me what I might not understand about you.

    I don’t need perfect.

    I need to understand what I am working with so that I can love someone as they are, rather than loving an idea of who I assume they are.

    But I am also learning that understanding another person requires patience, communication, and respect for their boundaries. I cannot demand that someone reveal everything simply because knowing makes me feel more secure.

    Trusting without knowing everything is difficult for me.

    I do not trust easily. For me, trust develops over time through observation, consistency, and experiences that allow me to feel comfortable enough to let another person in.

    Looking back, I can recognize that there was a great deal we did not know about each other when the relationship began. We were acting on hope, possibility, and faith in what we thought we saw.

    What were we thinking?

    I can admit that there was a struggle between my heart and my mind.

    My heart wanted a happy ending.

    My heart wanted everything I had imagined in the beginning.

    My heart wanted my assumptions to be true.

    But my mind was trying to process what I was experiencing.

    I kept noticing inconsistencies. I questioned things, accepted explanations, and then noticed the same patterns again. My mind kept storing all of it, and I struggled to find a way to make sense of what I was holding.

    Trying to work through everything I had accumulated made me feel vulnerable.

    And I have learned something about my relationship with vulnerability: I do not like feeling vulnerable alone.

    For me, vulnerability needs to feel mutual. I can open myself up, but I need to feel that the other person is willing to meet me there in their own way.

    When I don’t feel that connection, I start protecting myself. I start questioning. I start observing more closely. I start trying to understand.

    And when I cannot make sense of what I am experiencing, my mind begins searching for answers.

    Sometimes, that search can lead me to cross boundaries I have no right to cross.

    I have had to confront the fact that my need to know everything has, at times, led me to treat another person’s privacy as though it were something I was entitled to access.

    That is not okay.

    I am coming to understand that this behavior can be possessive and controlling, even when it comes from a place of fear, uncertainty, or a desire to feel secure.

    My discomfort does not entitle me to violate someone else’s privacy.

    My need for answers does not excuse behavior that compromises another person’s boundaries.

    And my fear of being hurt does not give me permission to control what someone else chooses to share.

    The truth is that I have struggled with needing to know everything, and I have to own that.

    Grieving What I Hoped For

    I am beginning to understand that some of my struggle was not simply about what was happening in the relationship. It was also about what I feared losing.

    I was afraid of losing what I was beginning to realize may not have been what I thought it was.

    I was grieving the possibility of a future I had imagined, the hope that things would work out, and the version of the relationship I wanted to believe was possible.

    That realization is painful because it asks me to separate what I experienced from what I hoped for. It asks me to acknowledge that something can matter deeply to me without becoming what I wanted it to be.

    The grief is not erased by that realization.

    If anything, it asks me to be honest about what I am actually mourning.

    I can miss the hope I carried. I can mourn the future I imagined. I can acknowledge that I cared deeply and that the loss hurt, even as my understanding of the relationship changes.

    I don’t have to convince myself that everything was meaningless just because it did not become what I hoped it would be.

    And I don’t have to keep holding on simply because letting go hurts.

    Research on romantic relationship dissolution suggests that the end of a relationship can affect how people understand themselves, not just how they feel about the person they have lost. In a series of three studies, Slotter et al. (2010) found that romantic breakups were associated with changes in self-concept, and that reduced clarity about one’s sense of self was related to emotional distress.

    That finding resonates with the broader process of taking inventory after a relationship ends. When something significant changes, we may need to reconsider not only the relationship but also our expectations, our choices, and the parts of ourselves we want to carry forward.

    For me, that means learning to distinguish between accepting another person and abandoning myself, between seeking understanding and trying to control an outcome, and between expressing pain and allowing pain to determine how I treat someone else.

    I am not desperate for a relationship. I would rather take the time to understand myself than continue entering relationships without understanding the patterns I bring into them.

    If being in a relationship requires me to tolerate some uncertainty, then I know I have work to do. I need to learn the difference between uncertainty that is part of being human and a situation that consistently does not work for me.

    I need to learn that I can ask questions, communicate my needs, establish boundaries, and make decisions without trying to control another person’s behavior.

    I also need to accept that I will not always receive every answer I want.

    Sometimes, I will have to make a decision based on what I know, what I experience, and what I can live with.

    And sometimes, the healthiest decision will be to walk away.

    Learning to Accept the Loss

    I don’t know what my future relationships will look like. I don’t know what I will be ready for or when I will feel ready.

    But I do know that I need to understand this part of myself before I enter another relationship.

    I am learning that acceptance does not mean I have to pretend the loss did not hurt. It does not mean I have to agree with everything that happened or abandon the lessons I took from the experience.

    It means I can acknowledge what happened, recognize what I can no longer change, and decide how I want to move forward.

    I was afraid of losing something I was beginning to realize may not have been what I thought it was.

    And now, I am learning to be okay with its absence.

    I can grieve what I thought I had without pretending it was everything I hoped it would be. I can acknowledge the hurt without allowing it to excuse the ways I responded. I can take accountability without denying that I was hurting, too.

    I can regret how I handled certain moments without condemning the person I was in them.

    I can acknowledge my pain without making someone else responsible for all of it.

    And I can accept that something meaningful to me has ended, even if my understanding of it has changed.

    Perhaps healing isn’t always about getting back what we lost. Sometimes, it is about accepting the loss, understanding what it revealed, and learning how to move forward without continuing to fight a reality we can no longer change.

    Sometimes, grief asks us to release not only a relationship but also the expectations, assumptions, and versions of ourselves we carried into it.

    And sometimes, the work of healing is learning to hold two truths at once: I was hurting, and I am responsible for what I did with that hurt.

    I cannot change the person I was in those moments, but I can choose what I do with what I have learned.

    That, too, is part of healing.

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

    References

    American Psychological Association. (n.d.). Grief. APA Dictionary of Psychology. https://dictionary.apa.org/grief

    American Psychological Association. (n.d.). Stages of grief. APA Dictionary of Psychology. https://dictionary.apa.org/stages-of-grief

    Boelen, P. A., & van den Hout, M. A. (2010). Inclusion of other in the self and breakup-related grief following relationship dissolution. Journal of Loss and Trauma, 15(6), 534–547. https://doi.org/10.1080/15325024.2010.519274

    Slotter, E. B., Gardner, W. L., & Finkel, E. J. (2010). Who am I without you? The influence of romantic breakup on the self-concept. Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin, 36(2), 147–160. https://doi.org/10.1177/0146167209352250

    Tran, K., Castiglioni, L., Walper, S., & Lux, U. (2024). Resolving relationship dissolution: What predicts emotional adjustment after breakup? Family Process, 63(3), 1157–1170. https://doi.org/10.1111/famp.12914

  • From Theory of Mind to Empathy: Understanding Grief Beyond Our Own Experience

    From Theory of Mind to Empathy: Understanding Grief Beyond Our Own Experience

    Written by Tiff | A Grief Moment

    During my undergraduate studies in psychology, I learned about theory of mind.

    At the time, I understood the concept intellectually. Years later, a personal experience helped me understand it in a different way.

    In simple terms, theory of mind is the understanding that other people have thoughts, beliefs, emotions, and internal experiences that are different from our own. It is the recognition that just because I think or feel something a certain way does not mean someone else does.

    We are not all operating from the same internal landscape.

    Years ago, I accompanied a dear friend to an MRI appointment. She told me she was afraid. I remember being present with her. I supported her. I sat beside her.

    And cognitively, I understood that her experience was different from mine.

    I knew she was afraid.

    I knew the machine made her uncomfortable.

    I knew the enclosed space triggered something for her.

    That was theory of mind.

    I recognized that her internal state existed and that it was not the same as mine.

    But I did not fully feel it.

    Years later, I found myself on that same table, being rolled into that same machine.

    Up until that moment, my mindset had been practical. I needed the MRI. I wanted answers. I was focused on results.

    But as I lay there and looked up at the narrow opening of the machine, my mind shifted.

    I placed my hands across my chest. The technician said I could position them however I liked. I chose that position without thinking much of it.

    Then I looked up at the enclosed tunnel.

    And something clicked.

    The space began to resemble a coffin.

    My mind, almost instantly, imagined being buried alive.

    And in that moment, I felt fear.

    Not theoretical fear.

    Not observed fear.

    But embodied fear.

    The loud sounds of the machine intensified it. The enclosure felt tighter. I suddenly understood why they give you a panic bulb to squeeze if you need to stop the test.

    Because your mind can take you somewhere your body reacts to as real.

    In that moment, I moved from cognitive understanding to emotional empathy.

    I was no longer simply aware that someone could feel afraid in that space.

    I felt how that fear might arise.

    Now, I want to be clear. I do not claim to know exactly what my friend experienced. Theory of mind does not give us mind-reading abilities.

    But it does allow us to consider another person’s perspective, imagine what an experience might be like for them, and recognize that their internal world may differ from our own.

    And in that process, empathy can grow.

    What I learned is that theory of mind provides a foundation for understanding others. It allows us to recognize differences in thoughts, feelings, and perspectives. Empathy can deepen that recognition by inviting us to consider another person’s emotional reality (Dvash & Shamay-Tsoory, 2014).

    Years ago, I had theory of mind.

    In that MRI machine, I experienced what I understood as embodied empathy.

    And that experience reshaped how I understand both concepts.

    Sometimes we understand something intellectually.

    And sometimes life places us in the very position that allows us to feel it.

    But What About the Experiences We Have Never Had?

    This experience left me thinking about something else.

    Do we have to experience something ourselves before we can truly empathize with someone who is experiencing it?

    I think this is an especially important question when we talk about grief.

    At some point in our lives, many of us will experience grief. We may lose someone we love, experience a significant life transition, or find ourselves mourning something we never imagined we could lose.

    Yet, even when grief becomes part of our own story, our experiences will not necessarily look the same.

    We may both lose a parent, for example, and still experience that loss differently. Our relationships are different. Our histories are different. What that person represented in our lives is different. And the circumstances surrounding the loss may shape our experiences in ways that are not immediately visible to someone else.

    One person may feel the weight of an empty house. Another may struggle with unfinished conversations. Someone else may find themselves grieving not only the person they lost, but also the future they imagined sharing with them.

    The loss may have the same name, but the experience can be profoundly different.

    So, if even two people who experience a similar loss cannot fully know what grief feels like for one another, what does that mean for those who have never experienced that particular kind of loss?

    Does the absence of firsthand experience mean the absence of understanding?

    I don’t believe it does.

    We Don’t Have to Experience Someone’s Grief to Acknowledge It

    My experience in the MRI machine helped me understand how being in a particular situation could deepen my emotional awareness of someone else’s fear.

    But I did not need to lie on that table to recognize that my friend was afraid. I did not need to feel her fear in my own body to take it seriously, sit beside her, or offer her support.

    My firsthand experience added another layer to my understanding. It did not create my friend’s right to be understood.

    And perhaps grief asks something similar of us.

    We may never know exactly what another person is experiencing. We may never have the same relationship with the person they lost, carry the same memories, or understand the full meaning of what has changed in their life.

    We may not understand why a person is grieving a relationship that others believe was unhealthy. We may struggle to understand why someone continues to mourn a loss years later. We may not immediately recognize the grief associated with a move, a life transition, a change in identity, or the loss of a future someone once envisioned.

    But unfamiliarity does not make another person’s grief less meaningful.

    We can listen.

    We can ask questions without assuming we already know the answers.

    We can acknowledge another person’s pain without trying to measure it against something we have experienced ourselves.

    And we can resist the urge to make someone’s grief about our own experiences simply because we are searching for a way to connect.

    Sometimes, in our effort to show understanding, we say, “I know how you feel.”

    We may mean well. We may be trying to communicate that the person is not alone. We may be drawing on our own experiences to find common ground.

    But do we really know how someone else feels?

    Even when we have experienced a similar loss, we cannot assume that our emotional experience is identical to theirs.

    Perhaps a more meaningful response is, “I may not know exactly what this is like for you, but I want to understand.”

    There is humility in that statement. It acknowledges the limits of our knowledge without withdrawing our willingness to care.

    Empathy does not require us to have lived someone else’s experience. It requires us to recognize that their experience matters, even when we cannot fully know what it feels like.

    Making Room for Grief Beyond Our Own Experience

    I think this is where theory of mind and empathy become particularly important in how we approach grief.

    Theory of mind reminds us that other people have internal experiences that we cannot automatically access or fully know. Empathy invites us to consider those experiences with curiosity and care. Compassion encourages us to respond in ways that respect the person and what they are going through.

    These ideas are connected, but they are not interchangeable. We can recognize another person’s distress without experiencing the same emotions ourselves. We can also offer meaningful support without having lived through the same circumstances.

    We do not have to pretend to understand everything.

    We do not have to find the perfect words.

    And we do not have to wait until life places us in someone else’s position before we decide that their pain deserves our attention.

    Instead, we can approach grief with a willingness to listen, an openness to experiences that differ from our own, and an understanding that no two people have to grieve in exactly the same way.

    Perhaps the goal is not to understand another person’s grief as if it were our own, but to make room for their grief without requiring it to resemble ours.

    Because the truth is that we can spend our lives learning about grief, studying its theories, exploring its emotional complexities, and reflecting on our own experiences, and still encounter someone whose grief is unfamiliar to us.

    That does not mean we have nothing to offer.

    Sometimes, what we offer is our presence.

    Sometimes, it is the willingness to listen without correcting, comparing, or rushing someone toward healing.

    And sometimes, it is simply allowing another person to tell us what their loss means to them.

    We may not always understand the depth of someone else’s grief.

    But we can respect it.

    We can make room for it.

    And we can choose to meet it with compassion.

    We do not have to experience someone else’s pain to recognize that it matters.

    Sometimes, empathy begins not with knowing how someone feels, but with being willing to understand what we do not yet know.

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

    References

    American Psychological Association. (n.d.). Grief. https://www.apa.org/topics/grief/

    Cacciatore, J., Thieleman, K., Fretts, R., & Jackson, L. B. (2021). What is good grief support? Exploring the actors and actions in social support after traumatic grief. PLOS ONE, 16(5), e0252324. https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0252324

    Dvash, J., & Shamay-Tsoory, S. G. (2014). Theory of mind and empathy as multidimensional constructs: Neurological foundations. Topics in Language Disorders, 34(4), 282–295. https://doi.org/10.1097/TLD.0000000000000040

  • When Grief Goes Unnoticed: The Impact of Unresolved Grief on Adolescent Development

    When Grief Goes Unnoticed: The Impact of Unresolved Grief on Adolescent Development

    Written by Tiff / A Grief Moment

    Originally written as a graduate application writing sample in June 2026, this paper explores adolescent grief, the importance of caregiver support, and the potential impact of unresolved grief on development.

    Introduction

    Grief is the acute emotional and physical pain that accompanies a significant loss of someone or something.This pain is a universal human experience.This experience, however, is often misunderstood when experienced by children and adolescents.

    Adults experiencing grief have the capacity to recognize and verbalize their emotions following significant loss. Adolescents do not have the same capacity. Adolescents are a distinct population with unique developmental needs that can complicate the grieving process (Lenhart & McCourt, 2000).They experience grief differently. At this stage of development, adolescents often rely on caregivers and other supportive adults to help them understand and navigate the grieving process. During adolescence, emotional understanding and cognitive processing are still developing, which can make grief more difficult to navigate independently. Adolescence is a critical period of development characterized by identity formation, increasing independence, and emotional growth. Significant losses during this stage can disrupt normal developmental processes, particularly when adolescents lack adequate support.

    Healthy identification and navigation of grief are essential in supporting adolescents’ emotional and developmental well-being. When grief is not recognized or adequately supported, it may become unresolved and contribute to emotional, behavioral, and developmental challenges. Caregiver involvement, family communication, and access to supportive interventions play an important role in helping adolescents adapt to loss (Alves et al., 2023). This paper explores adolescent grief, caregiver involvement in supporting healthy adjustment, and the impact of unresolved grief on adolescent development.

    Understanding Grief in Adolescence

    Bereavement during adolescence can be complex as adolescents begin to understand the permanence of death while still managing important social and emotional developmental changes. They may understand that death is permanent; however, the emotional consequences of loss can be far more difficult for them to process and navigate. Balk (1996) argues that adolescent grief should be understood through developmental models that recognize the complexity of bereavement during this stage of life.

    Grief responses among adolescents vary widely. Some adolescents openly express sadness and seek support from family members or peers. Others may withdraw socially, experience difficulty concentrating, display irritability, or engage in risk-taking behaviors. These reactions may be misunderstood by adults as typical developmental changes associated with adolescence, such as mood swings, irritability, social withdrawal, or changes in behavior.As a result, grieving adolescents may not receive the support necessary to effectively cope with their loss.

    When left unrecognized or unsupported, grief may become unresolved and have a significant impact during this critical stage of development. Significant losses may contribute to feelings of uncertainty, insecurity, and difficulty adjusting to developmental and life changes. Understanding the impact of grief on adolescents is essential for recognizing their needs and providing appropriate support

    The Role of Caregivers and Family Communication

    Caregivers play a central role in helping children and adolescents navigate grief. According to Alves et al. (2023), caregivers serve as key grief facilitators by helping youth understand loss, express emotions, and develop healthy coping strategies. The quality of support adolescents receive following a loss can significantly influence how they adjust over time.

    Communication within the family becomes especially important following a significant loss. Adolescents often turn to trusted adults for guidance, support, and help understanding what they are experiencing.When caregivers create opportunities for open and honest conversations about death and emotions, adolescents may feel more comfortable expressing their feelings and seeking support.Without open communication about grief, adolescents may struggle to make sense of their experiences.

    The situation becomes more complex when caregivers are also processing their own grief. Parents and guardians who are coping with their own loss may find it difficult to recognize signs of distress in their children. Although this is an understandable response, it can unintentionally leave adolescents without the emotional support they need. In many families, grief becomes a silent experience in which each family member struggles independently rather than processing the loss together. When communication replaces silence, families are better able to process grief together rather than in isolation.Caregivers who acknowledge loss, validate emotions, and encourage healthy expression play a critical role in preventing grief from becoming unresolved.

    The Impact of Unresolved Grief on Adolescent Development

    When grief is not recognized or addressed, it may become unresolved and contribute to a range of developmental and mental health concerns.Lenhart and McCourt (2000) found that unresolved grief can significantly affect adolescents’ emotional functioning and adjustment following the death of a significant caregiver. Adolescents experiencing unresolved grief may continue to struggle with feelings of sadness, anger, guilt, or confusion long after the loss has occurred.

    Research has also identified connections between complicated grief (a term often used to describe prolonged or intense forms of unresolved grief that interfere with functioning) and mental health challenges. Salloum et al. (2019) found associations between complicated grief and symptoms of depression among bereaved youth. Adolescents experiencing unresolved grief may struggle with persistent sadness, hopelessness, and difficulty engaging in everyday activities.

    Although unresolved grief can lead to emotional and developmental challenges, research also shows that adolescents are not destined for negative outcomes. Salloum et al. (2019) found that bereaved youth may experience posttraumatic growth and maintain hope when they receive consistent support and develop healthy coping strategies. These findings suggest that even when grief is difficult or prolonged, intervention and supportive relationships can still positively influence how adolescents adjust and heal.

    The Role of Social Work in Supporting Adolescents Experiencing Grief

    The role of social work in adolescent grief involves identifying signs of distress and providing interventions that promote healthy adjustment and emotional support. Since adolescent grief is often expressed through behavioral changes rather than direct communication about loss, social workers must remain attentive to subtle signs of distress. Working from a family-centered approach can be particularly valuable when supporting bereaved adolescents, as strengthening caregiver support and communication can create an environment where adolescents feel safe expressing their emotions.

    Social workers can also advocate for grief-informed practices within schools and communities, where adolescents spend a significant portion of their time and where signs of grief are often first identified. Collaboration among families, schools, counselors, and community organizations can help ensure that grief is recognized and supported across multiple environments in adolescents’ lives.Ultimately, social workers are essential in identifying adolescent grief early and providing the support needed to prevent it from becoming unresolved and disruptive to adolescent development.

    Conclusion

    Grief is a significant yet often overlooked experience in the lives of adolescents. Because adolescents may express grief differently than adults, their emotional struggles can go unnoticed, particularly when caregivers are coping with their own loss.

    Research highlights the importance of caregiver support, family communication, and early intervention in helping adolescents adapt to bereavement. When grief remains unresolved, it can contribute to emotional, behavioral, and developmental challenges, including depression and difficulties with adjustment. However, with appropriate support and intervention, adolescents can develop healthy coping strategies and demonstrate resilience following loss.

    Social work is essential in challenging silence around adolescent grief, advocating for early recognition, and ensuring that families and systems are equipped to respond with care, urgency, and understanding rather than overlooking what may be hidden pain. Early intervention not only supports adolescents in the moment, but also shapes how they understand and respond to loss in the future.

    References

    Alves, L., Zhang, N., Sandler, I. N., & Kaplow, J. B. (2023). Developmental manifestations of grief in children and adolescents: Caregivers as key grief facilitators. Journal of Child and Adolescent Trauma.

    Balk, D. E. (1996). Models for understanding adolescent coping with bereavement. Death Studies, 20(4), 367–389.

    Lenhart, A.-M. C., & McCourt, B. (2000). Adolescent unresolved grief in response to the death of a mother. Professional School Counseling.

    Salloum, A., Bjoerke, A., & Johnco, C. (2019). The associations of complicated grief, depression, posttraumatic growth, and hope among bereaved youth. Omega: Journal of Death and Dying.

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

  • When Childhood Changes: The Grief of Losing Familiarity, Routine, and Belonging

    When Childhood Changes: The Grief of Losing Familiarity, Routine, and Belonging

    Written by Tiff | A Grief Moment

    The other day, I was talking with friends about childhood friendships and the people who have remained part of their lives over the years. As they shared stories about friends they had known since elementary school or high school, I realized that I could not relate to having those same longstanding connections. I had friends growing up, and those friendships mattered to me. But my childhood was different.

    My father served in the Navy throughout my childhood, and moving was a regular part of our family life. We moved to different places, often about every four years. Sometimes, we moved in the middle of a school year. That meant leaving familiar surroundings, changing schools, meeting new people, and finding my place all over again.

    I remember having friendships, but many were temporary because another move was always a possibility. Even as a child, I sometimes approached friendships with that expectation in mind. As early as fifth grade, I remember telling friends that they could be my friend for now because I would be moving. Looking back, I wonder how knowing that my time in a place was limited may have influenced the way I approached relationships. I cannot say for certain, but it is something I have reflected on as I think about my childhood.

    This was also the 1990s, a time before social media made it easier to stay connected across distance. If I wanted to keep in touch with someone, it might mean writing a letter or sending a postcard through the mail. Staying connected took more effort, and honestly, that was not the reality I experienced with many of those friendships. I said goodbye to a lot of people and relationships as we moved from place to place. Sitting here writing this now, I can remember those connections, but I also remember that, at some point, I naturally began to hesitate before forming new bonds. I cannot say exactly when that shift happened, but I do wonder how often having to start over has influenced the way I approach friendships today.

    When I think about moving, one place in particular comes to mind. I was about nine years old when I left one of my favorite places to live. Behind our home was a huge wooded trail where I would walk and climb trees. There was a youth center within walking distance, a mini mart, a softball field, a recreation center, and a bowling alley. There were friends on every corner.

    That was my world. I had places to explore, people to spend time with, and the freedom to ride my bike and enjoy my surroundings. I had familiar places to go and people I could find without having to start from the beginning. It was a place where I felt a sense of freedom, familiarity, and connection.

    But, like all places, it was temporary.

    When adults make the decisions

    Adults make decisions about moving for many reasons. A parent may receive military orders, accept a new job, need more affordable housing, move closer to family, or make a change they believe will provide a better future for their children. Sometimes, these decisions are necessary. Other times, families may have choices, but each option comes with its own challenges.

    Children, however, may experience the same decision from a very different perspective.

    While an adult may be thinking about employment, finances, safety, or what the family needs, a child may be thinking about the friend they will no longer see every day, the teacher they have grown comfortable with, or the playground where they spend time after school. They may be wondering whether they will fit in at a new school or whether they will ever feel at home in the new neighborhood.

    The move may make sense to the adults, but that does not automatically mean the child is ready to leave.

    This is an important distinction because a child can understand why a move is happening and still feel sadness about what they are leaving behind. They can recognize that a change may be necessary while also struggling with the loss of familiar people, places, and routines.

    When we look at these experiences through the lens of grief, we create room to ask a different question. Instead of focusing only on whether a child is adjusting to the move, we can also consider whether the child is experiencing significant loss.

    What may appear to be a practical family decision to an adult can represent the loss of an entire world to a child. That does not mean every move causes grief. It means we should be willing to consider what the change means to the child, rather than assuming that understanding the reason for a move makes leaving easier.

    What does a child’s world actually consist of?

    A child’s world is made up of more than the home where they sleep. It includes the people they see regularly, the places they recognize, the activities they enjoy, and the routines that help their days feel familiar.

    It may be the neighbor who always waves when they ride their bike, the friend who sits beside them at lunch, the coach who encourages them, or the route they walk to school. It may be the freedom to visit a favorite playground or the comfort of knowing where they belong without having to explain themselves.

    These experiences can become part of a child’s sense of security, identity, and belonging. When a family moves, several parts of that familiar world may change at once.

    This is where I think it is important to consider the possibility of significant loss. When a child leaves a familiar home, a neighborhood they love, close friends, or routines that have been part of everyday life, what they are losing may be much more meaningful than adults realize. These experiences may not involve death, but they can still involve loss. And when a loss is significant to a child, it is worth asking whether the feelings that follow may include grief.

    Grief is not always about death. It can also be connected to losing relationships, familiarity, routines, and experiences that have given us a sense of connection or belonging. A child who misses friends they no longer see every day, a neighborhood where they felt at home, or routines that once made life predictable may be responding to more than a change in circumstances. They may be experiencing the emotional impact of losing a familiar part of their world.

    Research on residential mobility and adolescence helps illustrate why a child’s experience deserves attention. For example, a longitudinal study by Henkens et al. (2024) examined residential mobility and emotional and behavioral difficulties among adolescents. The researchers found that the adolescents’ subjective experience of moving mattered, with those who described a move as unpleasant showing a different pattern of change in emotional difficulties than those who did not experience the move as unpleasant.

    This research does not establish that moving causes grief. It does, however, support the importance of looking beyond the fact that a move occurred and considering how the young person experienced it.

    Not every child who moves will experience grief, and not every difficult response to change should be labeled as grief. Children may feel excited, curious, worried, sad, or several emotions at once. The important thing is not to assume grief is present, but also not to overlook its possibility simply because the loss does not involve death.

    Perhaps one of the most useful questions we can ask is this: What has this child lost, what did that part of their world mean to them, and how are they experiencing that loss?

    When friendships are part of what a child leaves behind

    Friendships can be an important part of childhood. They offer opportunities to share experiences, develop social skills, feel accepted, and build connections outside the family. For many children, friends are part of what makes school and the neighborhood feel like home.

    When a child moves, those friendships may suddenly become long-distance relationships. The people they once saw every day may now be people they rarely see in person. The child may miss ordinary things that adults do not always think about, such as sitting together at lunch, riding bikes after school, or stopping by a friend’s house.

    These may seem like small details, but ordinary moments can carry a great deal of meaning. When they disappear, a child may feel the absence of a relationship that once helped make everyday life enjoyable and familiar.

    Research by Vernberg et al. (2006) examined adolescents who relocated to a new community and found that relocation could be associated with temporary reductions in companionship and intimacy with close friends. The study also explored differences in how young people experienced these changes.

    This is important because friendship loss is not always as simple as saying goodbye to someone. A child may still consider a person a friend, but the relationship may change because they no longer share the same school, neighborhood, activities, or daily experiences.

    That change may involve a meaningful loss. For some children, the emotional response may include grief over the friendship as it used to be, even if the relationship continues in a different form.

    Technology can help children remain connected after a move. Messaging, video calls, and other forms of communication may help preserve friendships across distance. Research by Wendt and Langmeyer (2021) explored communication and friendship quality among children and adolescents following residential relocation. Their findings offer insight into the role communication can play in maintaining relationships after a move.

    However, staying connected online is not necessarily the same as sharing everyday life in person. A child may still talk to an old friend and miss being able to play together after school. Both experiences can be true.

    As adults, we may be tempted to reassure a child that they will make new friends. And they may. New friendships can become meaningful, supportive, and lasting. But the possibility of new relationships does not erase the significance of the ones a child has left behind.

    We can make room for both: the hope of forming new connections and the sadness that may accompany losing familiar ones.

    When the changes keep happening

    For some children, moving is an occasional event. For others, it is a recurring part of childhood.

    Military-connected children, for example, may move multiple times because of a parent’s service. Other families relocate because of employment, housing costs, financial circumstances, or changing family needs. The reasons differ, but repeated transitions can mean repeatedly learning a new school, finding new friends, and becoming familiar with a new community.

    Some children become comfortable with these changes. They may enjoy exploring new places, meeting people, and experiencing different environments. Others may find the process exhausting or difficult. Many may experience a mixture of both.

    The important point is that repeated change can involve more than learning a new address. A child may repeatedly leave relationships, routines, and places that have become meaningful. Each transition may bring its own losses, even when the family has good reasons for moving.

    When we consider the possibility of grief, we can ask whether repeated departures are affecting a child’s sense of continuity and belonging. Does the child feel connected to the new place? Do they have opportunities to maintain relationships from previous homes? Do they feel comfortable investing in friendships, or have they begun to expect that those friendships will be temporary?

    I cannot answer those questions for every child. My own childhood experiences are not proof that all children who move respond the same way. But I do think they are worth asking.

    A report by the Center for Public Research and Leadership and the Military Child Education Coalition (2017) examined the challenges highly mobile, military-connected children encounter during school transitions. The report drew on existing research and interviews with students, families, educators, and other stakeholders. It described academic, administrative, social, and emotional challenges associated with school transitions and offered recommendations for better support.

    The report does not establish that repeated moves necessarily result in grief. It does reinforce the importance of recognizing the range of challenges children may face when their educational and social environments change.

    When a child experiences repeated transitions, support should go beyond helping them learn the rules of a new school. It can also include helping them preserve important relationships, establish familiar routines, and develop a sense of connection in their new environment.

    We cannot always prevent a move. But we can be thoughtful about what a child may be leaving behind and how to help them carry meaningful connections forward.

    When a child’s family life changes

    Changes in a child’s world do not always involve moving to a new town. Sometimes, the home remains the same, but the family relationships and routines that once shaped daily life change.

    Parental separation or divorce can affect where a child lives, when they see each parent, how holidays are spent, and how family routines are organized. A child may move between two homes, spend less time with a parent, or experience changes in relationships with siblings and extended family members.

    Even when adults believe a separation is the best decision for the family, the child may still struggle with what is changing.

    They may miss having everyone together at breakfast. They may miss a parent who no longer lives in the home. They may feel uncertain about where they belong or worry about how their relationships will change. Some children may feel relief when family conflict decreases, while also feeling sadness about changes in family life. Others may have very different experiences.

    These responses do not all mean a child is grieving. However, significant changes in family relationships and routines can involve meaningful losses, and grief may be part of how some children experience those changes.

    A review by Rejaän et al. (2022) examined adolescents’ sense of belonging following parental divorce. It considered belonging across several areas of life, including family, school, peer relationships, and neighborhood. The review highlights why belonging deserves attention when family circumstances change.

    The American Academy of Pediatrics has also emphasized that children’s responses to separation and divorce vary, and that family circumstances, parental conflict, and the support available to children matter (Cohen & Weitzman, 2016).

    Together, these sources encourage us to consider the child’s experience rather than assuming that all children will respond in the same way.

    A child does not have to reject a parent’s decision to feel the loss associated with it. They can love both parents, understand that the family structure has changed, and still grieve aspects of family life that are no longer the same.

    Recognizing that possibility does not mean blaming parents or suggesting that every family change is harmful. It means understanding that a decision can be necessary for adults and still carry emotional consequences for a child.

    How do we help children adjust to changes they did not choose?

    We cannot always give children control over major family decisions. Adults may have to move, change jobs, separate, or make other decisions that affect the family. But we can give children opportunities to express what those changes mean to them.

    One place to start is by asking questions that invite honest answers rather than directing children toward a particular feeling.

    We might ask:

    • What do you think you will miss most?
    • What are you looking forward to, if anything?
    • What worries you about this change?
    • Who would you like to stay in touch with?
    • Is there anything you wish could stay the same?
    • What would help you feel more comfortable in the new situation?

    These questions communicate that the child’s experience matters. They also give adults a chance to learn what may be most important to that particular child.

    We can also look for ways to preserve continuity. Maintaining familiar routines, keeping photographs and meaningful belongings accessible, arranging calls with old friends, and helping a child find activities in a new community may provide a sense of connection.

    These actions will not eliminate every difficult feeling, and they cannot restore everything that has changed. But they can help children experience some stability while they navigate a new situation.

    It is also important to remember that support does not have to begin with identifying a child as grieving. Sometimes, listening is the first step. A child may need reassurance, practical help, time to adjust, or space to talk about what they miss. If their distress is persistent or begins interfering significantly with everyday life, additional support from a qualified professional may be helpful.

    The goal is not to decide in advance what a child should be feeling. It is to give them room to tell us what they are feeling and respond with care.

    Making room for feelings that differ from our own

    Adults may look at a change and see opportunity. A new home may mean better housing. A new school may offer new experiences. A separation may reduce conflict in the household. Those possibilities can be real and important.

    But a child’s emotional experience may not match the adult’s perspective.

    A child may be excited about a new bedroom and still miss the old one. They may enjoy their new school and still wish they could see their former friends every day. They may understand why their family moved and still feel sad about leaving a place where they felt at home.

    These feelings do not have to cancel one another out.

    Sometimes, in an effort to comfort children, adults say things like, “You’ll make new friends,” “You’ll get used to it,” or “This is for the best.” These statements may be well-intentioned, and they may even turn out to be true. But they can unintentionally communicate that a child’s current feelings are something to move past quickly.

    When a child is dealing with a significant loss, reassurance alone may not address what they are experiencing. They may first need someone to acknowledge what has changed and why it matters to them.

    We do not have to agree with every feeling a child expresses to recognize that the feeling is real. We do not have to reverse a decision to make room for sadness. And we do not have to label every difficult emotion as grief to take it seriously.

    What matters is that we resist the urge to measure a child’s experience only by our own expectations. A place that seems ordinary to us may feel like home to them. A friendship that adults view as one of many may be a child’s closest connection. A routine that appears small may have helped make their days feel safe and predictable.

    When we listen without immediately correcting, dismissing, or trying to solve the feeling, we give children the opportunity to make sense of their experiences in their own way.

    Recognizing losses that do not involve death

    When people hear the word grief, they often think about the death of someone they love. That association is understandable, but grief is not limited to bereavement.

    People can also experience grief in response to other significant losses. For children, those losses may involve relationships, familiar surroundings, routines, community connections, or a sense of belonging that has changed.

    Not every move, friendship change, or family transition will lead to grief. Children are individuals, and the meaning of a loss depends in part on their circumstances and experiences. Some may adapt quickly, some may struggle, and some may experience a mixture of feelings that changes over time.

    Still, we should not overlook the possibility of grief simply because no one has died.

    When a child leaves a place where they felt safe and connected, it is worth considering whether they are experiencing more than the practical challenges of adjustment. When they miss the friendships and routines that once shaped their everyday lives, it is worth asking whether those changes represent significant loss to them. And when they struggle to feel at home in a new environment, it is worth exploring what they may need to rebuild a sense of belonging.

    For me, reflecting on my childhood has raised questions about how repeated moves shaped my friendships and my expectations of connection. I cannot say with certainty how every experience affected me, and I would not assume that another child would respond in the same way. But I know that the places, people, and routines we leave behind can matter.

    That is why I believe we need to make room for a broader conversation about grief. We can recognize that children may experience meaningful loss without assuming that every transition is harmful or that every difficult emotion is grief.

    The question is not simply whether a child can adjust to a new situation. It is also whether we have taken the time to understand what they have lost, what that loss means to them, and what support they may need as they move forward.

    A child can move into a new home, attend a new school, meet new friends, and build a new routine. Life can continue to grow around them. But that does not mean the world they left behind never mattered.

    Sometimes, helping a child move forward begins with acknowledging what they had to leave behind.

    A Grief Moment

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

    References

    Center for Public Research and Leadership, & Military Child Education Coalition. (2017). The challenges of supporting highly mobile, military-connected children in school transitions. Columbia Law School. https://scholarship.law.columbia.edu/public_research_leadership/14/

    Cohen, G. J., & Weitzman, C. C. (2016). Helping children and families deal with divorce and separation. Pediatrics, 138(6), Article e20163020. https://doi.org/10.1542/peds.2016-3020

    Henkens, J. H. D., Stevens, G. W. J. M., & de Valk, H. A. G. (2024). The relation between residential mobility and internalizing and externalizing problems in adolescence: The role of subjective moving experience, gender, and friendship quality. Journal of Youth and Adolescence, 53(10), 2234–2250. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10964-024-02014-6

    Rejaän, Z., van der Valk, I. E., Schrama, W. M., van Aalst, I., Chen, A., Jeppesen de Boer, C. G., Houtkamp, J. M., & Branje, S. (2022). Adolescents’ post-divorce sense of belonging: An interdisciplinary review. European Psychologist, 27(4), 277–290. https://doi.org/10.1027/1016-9040/a000444

    Vernberg, E. M., Greenhoot, A. F., & Biggs, B. K. (2006). Intercommunity relocation and adolescent friendships: Who struggles and why? Journal of Consulting and Clinical Psychology, 74(3), 511–523. https://doi.org/10.1037/0022-006X.74.3.511

    Wendt, R., & Langmeyer, A. N. (2021). Computer-mediated communication and child/adolescent friendship quality after residential relocation. Journal of Child and Family Studies, 30(11), 2890–2902. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10826-021-02102-2

  • Grief, Bereavement, and Mourning

    Grief, Bereavement, and Mourning

    Written by Tiff | A Grief Moment

    These words are often used interchangeably, though they don’t necessarily mean the same thing.

    Bereavement is the experience of losing someone, particularly after a death. It describes the circumstance of the loss.

    Grief is the response to that loss. It can involve sadness, anger, confusion, relief, guilt, longing, numbness, or even emotions that are difficult to put into words. Grief can also show up physically, mentally, socially, and spiritually.

    Mourning is how grief is processed and expressed. It can be deeply personal, but it can also be influenced by our families, cultures, communities, traditions, and beliefs.

    They are connected, but they are not interchangeable.

    You can be bereaved because you experienced a loss. You can grieve that loss in ways that are unique to you, and you may mourn through the ways you express, process, and make meaning of that loss.

    And here’s a very important thing to remember.

    There is no single right way to grieve or mourn.

    I’ll say that again. There is no single right way to grieve or mourn.

    The way one person responds to a loss can look completely different from another person’s experience, and it doesn’t make one person’s grief more valid than the other’s.

    Sometimes simply understanding the language we use to describe grief can help us better understand the experience itself.

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

    Sources:

    American Psychological Association (APA)

    Parkes, C. M., Grieving and Mourning: The Psychology of Bereavement

    Shear, M. K., et al., “Grief and Mourning Gone Awry: Pathway and Course of Complicated Grief”

  • A Grief Moment 101: How Grief Actually Works

    A Grief Moment 101: How Grief Actually Works

    Written by Tiff | A Grief Moment

    Have you ever wondered why grief can feel manageable one day and overwhelming the next?

    You might wake up feeling okay, go to work, laugh with someone, run errands, and carry on with your day. Then something happens. A song comes on. You see a familiar place. Someone mentions a name. Suddenly, you’re reminded of what you’ve lost, and the feelings come rushing back.

    You might even find yourself wondering, I thought I was doing better. Why am I feeling this way again?

    Let’s talk about that.

    Grief does not follow a straight line.

    Research on grief and bereavement shows that coping with loss involves a dynamic process. One important explanation is the Dual Process Model developed by Margaret Stroebe and Henk Schut (1999).

    According to this model, people often move back and forth between two kinds of experiences.

    One involves confronting the loss itself. This may include missing someone, remembering what you shared, feeling sadness, experiencing anger, or trying to make sense of what happened.

    The other involves adjusting to life after the loss. This might mean returning to work, managing responsibilities, learning to live with changes, rebuilding routines, or figuring out who you are in a life that no longer looks the same.

    And here’s something important: both are part of the process.

    You may spend one day thinking about the person or experience you’ve lost and another day focusing on everything you need to do to keep your life moving.

    You might have moments when you want to talk about your loss, followed by moments when you simply want to do something else.

    You might laugh today and cry tomorrow.

    You might feel like you’re making progress, only to find yourself struggling again when a memory catches you off guard.

    That does not automatically mean you’re going backward.

    Sometimes, you’re responding to a reminder. Sometimes, you’re facing another part of the loss. And sometimes, you simply need a break from carrying the emotional weight of it all.

    Stroebe and Schut’s model recognizes that people may alternate between confronting the loss and taking a break from it while adjusting to the changes it brings (Stroebe & Schut, 1999).

    Think about that for a moment.

    We still have lives to live while we’re grieving.

    We have responsibilities, relationships, bills, children, work, and everyday decisions to make. We may be trying to understand what happened while also figuring out how to move forward.

    And sometimes, we do both in the same day.

    This is why I think it’s important to give ourselves permission to experience grief without expecting ourselves to respond to it the same way every day.

    You don’t have to feel sad every moment to prove that something mattered to you.

    You don’t have to be okay every day to prove that you’re making progress.

    And you don’t have to rush yourself through the experience because someone else thinks you should be further along by now.

    Grief is personal. The meaning of the loss, your relationship to what was lost, your circumstances, and the support available to you can all influence how you experience it.

    Understanding grief means recognizing that there isn’t one universal timetable for how a person should feel or how quickly they should adjust.

    So, if you’re grieving and some days feel easier than others, give yourself some grace.

    If you’ve had a difficult day after several better ones, allow yourself to acknowledge that, too.

    You don’t have to turn every difficult moment into a sign that you’re failing to heal.

    Sometimes, you need to feel what you’re feeling. Sometimes, you need to focus on the next thing in front of you. And sometimes, you need to stop and give yourself the space to understand what you’re carrying.

    This is why it’s important to pause, reflect, and process.

    Because understanding how grief works can help us become a little more patient with ourselves and a little more compassionate toward others.

    Healing isn’t about proving that you’ve stopped hurting. It’s about learning how to live with what has changed, while allowing yourself the space to feel what that change means.

    Sources

    Stroebe, M., & Schut, H. (1999). The dual process model of coping with bereavement: Rationale and description. Death Studies, 23(3), 197–224. https://doi.org/10.1080/074811899201046

    Stroebe, M., Schut, H., & Boerner, K. (2017). Models of coping with bereavement: An updated overview. Studies in Psychology, 38(3), 582–607. https://doi.org/10.1080/02109395.2017.1340055

  • When School Becomes a Place of Fear: The Emotional Impact of School Shootings on Children and Educators

    When School Becomes a Place of Fear: The Emotional Impact of School Shootings on Children and Educators

    Written by Tiff | A Grief Moment

    When I attended school in the 1990s, I had very little to worry about. We were cautious about kidnappers and school bullies. We were taught to just say no to drugs. Smokey Bear taught us how to put out campfires, and there might occasionally be a fight after school. But I don’t remember going to school wondering whether someone might bring a gun, or any weapon of that kind, into the building. And not once, not once, did I ever think I might lose my life simply by showing up to school.

    Today, I find myself wondering what it feels like to be a child going to school in a world where school shootings have become a regular part of the public conversation.

    School is supposed to be a place where children learn, develop friendships, discover who they are, make mistakes, and grow. It is a significant part of childhood and adolescence. Yet, for some children, school may also be a place where questions about their safety begin to enter their thoughts.

    And this concern does not belong to children alone. Teachers, administrators, and other school staff enter these environments, too. They are expected to educate, guide, encourage, and protect children while navigating their own concerns about safety.

    Abby Zwerner, a first-grade teacher at Richneck Elementary School in Newport News, Virginia, was shot by her six-year-old student in her own classroom on January 6, 2023. The incident raises difficult questions about school safety, but it also brings the issue closer to home. Here was a teacher in her classroom, doing her job and teaching young children in a place where they were supposed to be learning.

    How did we get here? How did the school environment become a place where we have to consider the possibility of this kind of violence?

    I also think about how our conversations about violence and children have changed. We have spent years debating the influence of violent video games on children’s behavior. But today, we also have to consider the constant stream of media coverage surrounding school violence and the access school-age children have to social media. News of a shooting can reach children almost immediately, and the images, videos, commentary, and conversations can continue long after the initial report.

    What happens when children repeatedly encounter stories about violence in the very places they are expected to attend every day? How might those stories influence the way they think about their own safety? Can a child begin to fear that something similar could happen at their school, even if they have never personally experienced a school shooting?

    These questions deserve our attention. Not because we can assume that media exposure affects every child in the same way, or that it causes school violence, but because we need to understand what children are taking in and how these experiences may shape their sense of safety.

    What happens to a child’s sense of safety when the possibility of violence becomes part of how they understand school? What happens when fear follows them into a place where they should be able to learn, make friends, make mistakes, and simply be children?

    And perhaps the question I keep coming back to is this: When children begin to fear a loss that has not occurred, what happens to them emotionally? Is this anticipatory fear, or could there be a connection to anticipatory grief? And how do we understand the emotional weight of a loss that someone fears may happen, but has not experienced?

    When the Fear Exists Before the Event

    A 2021 study published in JAMA Network Open examined 2,263 adolescents from 10 high schools in Los Angeles. Researchers explored students’ concerns, worries, and stress about shootings or violence at their own school or at other schools. They then examined students’ mental health symptoms six months later.

    A substantial number of students reported being very or extremely concerned about shootings or violence. Greater concern was associated with a higher likelihood of significant anxiety and panic symptoms six months later. The researchers did not find a statistically significant overall association between these concerns and depression.

    These findings do not establish that worry triggered by school violence causes these symptoms, nor do they tell us that every student experiences the same effects. However, they remind us that children may be emotionally affected by school shootings even when they have not been directly involved in one. Hearing about these events, seeing them reported in the news, or knowing that something like this could happen at their own school may influence how children think and feel about their safety.

    The study also raises questions that deserve further exploration. Were students responding to events in their own communities, incidents elsewhere, media coverage, conversations with others, or a combination of these experiences? Did some have direct connections to a shooting, while others were affected by hearing about these events or fearing that something similar might happen to them? And how might those differences shape a child’s emotional experience?

    When the News Follows Children Into the Classroom

    Children today can learn about events happening around the world through television, online news, social media, videos, group chats, and conversations with friends. They are not limited to hearing about an incident once and then moving on with their day. They may encounter repeated updates, images, commentary, and reactions long after an event has occurred. School shootings can become part of the news and conversations children encounter in their everyday lives, even when the incident happened in a community far from their own.

    But what happens when the people in those stories feel familiar? The victims may be close to a child’s age. They may attend a similar school, share similar interests, or remind a child of their own friends and classmates. Suddenly, what happened somewhere else may not feel so far away. A child may begin to wonder what it would mean if the same thing happened at their school.

    We can think about this through the way people respond when a threat feels close to home. During the COVID-19 pandemic, for example, older adults were widely identified as being at greater risk of severe illness and death. For someone who belonged to that age group, the pandemic may have felt especially personal. The threat was no longer just a story about what was happening to other people. It was something that could affect their own life. In a similar way, when children repeatedly hear about other children being harmed at school, they may begin to think differently about their own safety. The circumstances are different, but both examples raise a question about how the perceived closeness of a threat can shape how people think and feel.

    Research examining children’s reactions to news coverage of school shootings has found an association between greater exposure and parents’ reports of frightened reactions and stronger perceptions that the world is dangerous. Another study examining adolescents’ exposure to news coverage of the Uvalde school shooting found associations between general news consumption and depression symptoms, as well as between persistent coverage of Uvalde and post-traumatic stress symptoms.

    These findings do not prove that news exposure alone causes these responses, and they do not mean that every child who encounters upsetting news will experience lasting emotional harm. They do, however, suggest that children’s reactions to these events deserve attention. What children see and hear may matter, particularly when the people in the stories remind them of themselves or the people they care about.

    But what does a child actually do with this information?

    As adults, we may understand that an event happened at another school, in another city, involving people we have never met. We may try to put the event into perspective and remind ourselves that it is not happening in our own community. But can we expect children to process frightening information in the same way? How does a child make sense of the possibility that something terrible could happen in a place they attend almost every day?

    Children are still developing their understanding of the world, their ability to manage difficult emotions, and their language for explaining what they feel. Sometimes, we ask children how their day went and struggle to get more than a few words out of them. Yet we may expect them to explain complicated feelings about safety, violence, and the possibility of something happening to them. A child may not have the words to explain a fear, may not know how to ask for reassurance, or may not even fully understand why a news story has stayed on their mind.

    And this concern extends beyond children.

    Teachers, administrators, and other school staff are also expected to walk into these buildings, carry out their responsibilities, and help create an environment where children can learn and grow. They may be aware of the same events that children are watching and hearing about. They, too, may have questions about their safety and the safety of the students in their care.

    How do educators continue to build trust with students while remaining attentive to safety? How do schools recognize genuine warning signs without encouraging suspicion toward every child? How do teachers maintain an environment that supports curiosity, connection, and learning while also preparing for the possibility of violence?

    These questions matter because a school is more than a building where children receive an education. It is a place where relationships develop, confidence grows, and children learn how to interact with the world around them. The threat of violence raises questions not only about physical safety, but also about how children and adults experience that environment.

    And then there is the violence itself. What leads a child to harm another person in a place where they are supposed to be learning? What circumstances, experiences, and influences might contribute to such an act? These questions become especially difficult when we consider incidents involving very young children, such as the shooting of first-grade teacher Abby Zwerner by her six-year-old student at Richneck Elementary School in 2023. The incident forces us to confront questions about the safety of classrooms, the circumstances surrounding children’s behavior, and the responsibility adults and institutions have to protect everyone in a school community.

    We cannot assume that media coverage explains why a child commits an act of violence, just as we cannot assume that every child who watches frightening news will become fearful or distressed. But we can ask what repeated exposure to violence means for the children who witness these stories from a distance, the educators who must continue teaching, and the school communities trying to maintain a sense of safety.

    How do we get to a place where the possibility of violence becomes part of the conversation surrounding a child’s school day? And what happens when the news no longer feels like a story about something that happened somewhere else, but something a child begins to imagine happening to them?

    When Feeling Unsafe Changes Everyday Life

    We’ve come a long way from the 1990s, or at least the way we think about the school environment has changed. When I think about children going to school today, I find myself wondering what it must be like to enter a place where you’re expected to learn, make friends, explore your interests, and grow, while also knowing that violence could occur there.

    How do you keep your focus when the place you’re expected to learn may also be a place you worry about being harmed? And how does an educator maintain a passion for teaching when preparing for the possibility of violence has become part of the conversation surrounding the profession?

    These questions matter because concerns about school violence can extend beyond what children think or feel when they hear about a shooting. They may also affect how students experience school and whether they feel safe enough to attend.

    Research published in the American Journal of Public Health examined students’ experiences following school shootings and found an association between exposure to shootings at high schools and increased odds of avoiding school because they felt unsafe. The findings remind us that the impact of school violence may extend beyond the immediate event and affect how some students approach their everyday school routine.

    But what does it mean when a child begins missing school because they do not feel safe? What happens to their learning, their relationships with classmates, and their sense of belonging? And what happens when the place they are expected to attend every day becomes a place they would rather avoid?

    The effects can reach beyond attendance, too. Research examining school shootings in Texas found associations with increased absenteeism and grade repetition, as well as reductions in high school graduation and college enrollment and completion. The study also identified changes in teacher and support-staff retention following shootings at affected schools. These findings do not mean that every student or educator experiences the same consequences, but they raise important questions about the longer-term effects violence can have on a school community.

    And I think we also need to consider the educators who enter these environments every day.

    I have a friend who is pursuing her master’s degree and preparing for a career in education. She shared with me how completing a school-shooter training brought a different kind of weight to her dream of becoming a teacher. She had reached a point in her preparation where she was being taught how to respond to the possibility of an armed attacker in an elementary school. It made her confront the reality that, in addition to teaching and caring for children, she might one day have to prepare to protect them from that kind of violence.

    Her experience stayed with me. Here is someone working toward a career that is supposed to be about helping children learn and grow, yet part of that preparation requires her to imagine a situation in which she may have to protect their lives. What does it feel like to have that responsibility become part of the career you’re preparing to enter? How do you hold on to the excitement of becoming a teacher while also having to prepare for something so frightening?

    And there is another part of this that I find especially difficult to ignore. Think about the responsibilities of an elementary school teacher. Their days are supposed to be filled with helping children learn to read, work through math problems, build friendships, resolve disagreements, and discover the world around them. Yet, in today’s school environment, we also have to consider the possibility that a teacher may worry about whether a student has brought a weapon into the classroom.

    Think about the contrast. An educator may be helping a child learn to write their name, encouraging them to share with their classmates, or reminding them to put their belongings away, while also being responsible for maintaining a safe environment for everyone in that room. What does it mean when the ordinary responsibilities of teaching exist alongside the possibility of having to respond to a weapon in a child’s backpack?

    I think that contrast deserves our attention. Not because we should look at every child with suspicion, but because we have to acknowledge the weight of the responsibility placed on the adults who care for them. How does a teacher maintain a classroom built on trust, curiosity, and connection while also preparing for a possibility that should never have to enter a child’s school day?

    Her experience is one person’s account, and it cannot tell us how all future educators feel. But it raises a question worth considering: What happens when the possibility of violence becomes part of how someone imagines their future in education?

    Research on violence against educators has also documented concerns that extend beyond school shootings, including threats, physical aggression, workplace stress, and thoughts about leaving the profession. A national survey of teachers conducted after the Parkland shooting found that some educators had considered leaving teaching because of safety concerns. Other research has explored how violence directed at teachers can contribute to thoughts of transferring schools, retiring, or leaving the profession.

    These findings raise questions about what it takes for educators to continue showing up, connecting with students, and creating environments where children feel encouraged to learn. How do teachers maintain their focus when they have concerns about their own safety? How do they balance the responsibility to protect students with the responsibility to teach them? And how do schools support the people who are expected to care for children while managing their own concerns about violence?

    There is also the question of what schools can realistically do. Safety procedures and emergency training may help staff prepare for dangerous situations, but preparation does not mean that every risk can be eliminated. Schools must also consider how to maintain relationships and trust, recognize genuine warning signs, and respond to concerns without creating an atmosphere in which every student is viewed with suspicion.

    When a shooting occurs, we often find ourselves asking whether there were warning signs beforehand. Could someone have recognized something that might have prevented the violence? What did the people around the student know, and what support was available? These are important questions to investigate after an incident, but we also have to be careful not to assume that every act of violence can be predicted or prevented by recognizing a particular appearance, personality, or social pattern.

    The challenge is to create environments where concerns can be taken seriously, students can ask for help, and educators have the support and resources they need to respond appropriately. Protecting a school community requires more than preparing for the worst possible moment. It also means paying attention to the everyday conditions in which children learn, relationships develop, and educators do their work.

    And this brings me back to a question I cannot ignore: How do we preserve the joy of learning and the passion for teaching when the possibility of violence has become part of the school experience?

    What happens to a child’s excitement about going to school when fear begins to compete with curiosity? What happens to an educator’s dream when the responsibility of teaching is accompanied by the possibility of having to protect a classroom from an armed attacker? And if students and educators are having to adjust the way they think about safety, attendance, and their futures, what does that tell us about the school environment as a whole?

    We cannot assume that every child is afraid, that every teacher wants to leave, or that every school community experiences violence in the same way. But we can ask whether the ongoing threat of school shootings is changing the way some children and educators experience a place that should support learning, development, and connection.

    Can We Grieve Something We Have Not Lost?

    This brings me back to the question I raised earlier: Can we grieve something we have not lost?

    When we talk about grief, we often think about the death of someone we love. But grief can also arise in response to other significant losses. Sometimes, we grieve changes in our lives, the loss of a sense of security, or a future we thought we could count on. And sometimes, we find ourselves emotionally affected by losses that happen to other people, even when we did not know them personally.

    Think about the COVID-19 pandemic. As the death toll climbed, many of us watched the news and tried to process what was happening around us. We heard about hospitals filling with sick patients, families losing loved ones, and healthcare workers caring for people in circumstances that were difficult to comprehend. We watched the numbers rise, and behind those numbers were people, families, and communities experiencing devastating losses.

    Can we really say that people were unaffected simply because they did not personally know someone who died? What about the nurses and other healthcare workers who repeatedly witnessed suffering and death? What about the people who watched the news and struggled to comprehend the scale of what was happening? People did not have to experience the same loss to be affected by the suffering unfolding around them.

    The COVID-19 pandemic is not the same as school shootings, and the experiences should not be treated as interchangeable. However, it raises a question worth considering: How do we respond emotionally when we repeatedly encounter the loss of human life, particularly when the people affected remind us of ourselves, our families, or the people we love?

    Now think about a child hearing that another student has been killed in a school shooting. That child may never have met the student who died. They may live in a different state, attend a different school, and have no direct connection to the family. But the child who died was also a student. They went to class, sat at a desk, interacted with classmates, and were part of a school community. They may have been laughing with friends, thinking about their next class, or looking forward to going home.

    And then their life ended in a place where they were supposed to be safe.

    What might another child think when they hear that story? What happens when the person who died looks like someone they sit beside in class, is the same age as their sibling, or shares the same everyday experiences they do? Does the loss begin to feel closer because the child can imagine themselves in that situation?

    For a child who has never experienced a school shooting firsthand, hearing about one may still raise frightening questions about their own safety. The loss of another student’s life may challenge their belief that school is a place where they can learn and grow without having to consider the possibility of being killed. And when similar stories continue to appear in the news, that sense of uncertainty may become harder to ignore.

    This is where I think we need to take a closer look at grief, while also being careful about the language we use.

    Anticipatory grief is generally understood as grief that occurs in anticipation of a death or other significant loss that is expected or feared. It is often discussed in the context of serious illness and the possibility of losing someone before that loss actually occurs. But could some of the ideas associated with anticipatory grief help us explore what happens when children fear a possible loss of their own safety or life?

    I want to be careful here. Fear of a school shooting does not automatically mean a child is experiencing anticipatory grief. Anxiety, fear, traumatic stress, and grief are related in some circumstances, but they are not interchangeable. And we cannot conclude from the studies discussed earlier that the children who reported concerns about school violence were grieving.

    What we can say is that research has found an association between concerns about school violence and later anxiety and panic symptoms among adolescents. Other research has linked news exposure surrounding school shootings with frightened reactions among children and associations between persistent coverage and mental health symptoms among adolescents. These findings do not establish that children are experiencing grief, but they do give us reason to keep asking questions about the emotional effects of these experiences.

    In the study involving adolescents from 10 high schools in Los Angeles, researchers found that greater concern about school violence or shootings was associated with a higher likelihood of significant anxiety and panic symptoms six months later. These students did not all need to have experienced a shooting at their own school for their concerns to matter. Their responses remind us that the perceived possibility of violence can be emotionally significant, even when we cannot assume that every student has the same experiences or reactions.

    So, what are we seeing when children hear about these shootings and begin to imagine that something similar could happen to them? Are they experiencing fear about a possible future loss? Are they grieving a sense of safety they once took for granted? Could some children experience grief-related responses alongside anxiety or other emotional reactions? And how would we recognize those experiences if we never created space for children to talk about them?

    I do not believe we can answer these questions by simply assigning a label to what children feel. We need to listen to them, understand their experiences, and allow research to help us distinguish between the different ways they may be affected.

    But I do believe the questions deserve our attention. When children repeatedly hear about the deaths of people their own age, in places that resemble the environments they enter every day, we should not assume that those stories leave them untouched.

    Perhaps we need to ask not only what children fear losing, but what happens to their sense of safety when they begin to believe that something they once took for granted may not be guaranteed.

    Can we grieve something we have not lost? Perhaps the more important question is whether we are willing to listen when children try to tell us what they are afraid of losing.

    What Are We Asking Children to Carry?

    There is another question I cannot ignore: How does repeated exposure to school shootings affect the way children view the people around them?

    When children hear about school shootings, do some begin to wonder whether someone in their own classroom could hurt them? Do they become more suspicious of classmates they perceive as different, withdrawn, angry, or difficult to understand? How do media narratives and conversations among peers shape those fears? And when children are exposed to these stories, are we giving them enough space to process what they are seeing, ask questions, and understand what it means?

    These questions need careful consideration. A person’s appearance, personality, social relationships, or tendency to spend time alone cannot reliably identify someone who will commit a school shooting. We should not encourage children to label classmates as potential threats based on stereotypes. At the same time, we should not dismiss children’s worries simply because those worries may be difficult for adults to hear.

    Children are trying to understand the world around them, often with less information, experience, and control than the adults in their lives. They may hear about a shooting, watch the coverage, listen to conversations among classmates, and begin wondering whether something similar could happen to them. They may have questions they do not know how to ask or fears they do not know how to explain.

    And what happens when those questions remain unanswered?

    I think about the messages children have received over the years when it comes to dealing with difficult situations at school. When I attended school in the 1990s, one of the concerns we often heard about was bullying. Children were told to stand up for themselves, stick up for themselves, and not let someone else intimidate them. We have seen versions of this play out in movies, too, where a child is pushed toward a bully and encouraged to fight back or defend themselves.

    Those messages were not always the right response to bullying, but they reflected an idea many of us grew up hearing: If someone mistreats you, you have to find a way to stand up for yourself.

    But what happens when the fear is no longer about a bully pushing you around? What happens when the concern involves a gun?

    How do we prepare children for a situation in which standing up for themselves may not be safe? How do we help them understand the difference between being aware of their surroundings and feeling as though they must constantly be on guard?

    These are difficult questions because children do not have the same control over their environment that adults do. They are expected to show up at school, follow the schedule, listen to their teachers, complete their work, and continue developing socially and academically. Yet, some are also being taught what to do if someone brings a weapon into their school.

    This brings me back to my friend, who is pursuing her master’s degree to become a teacher, and the school-shooter training she described earlier. Her experience made me think about the children who participate in these drills, too.

    Are students receiving training for these situations? If they are, how do they understand what they are being asked to do? Do they view these drills as another routine part of school, similar to hurricane or other emergency-preparedness drills? Or do the drills raise questions and fears they carry with them after the exercise ends?

    We know that schools use different safety procedures and emergency drills, but we should not assume that every school follows the same practices or that every child experiences these drills in the same way. What I want to understand is what these experiences mean to the children who participate in them.

    Imagine being told to go to class, do your best, make friends, and focus on learning, while also being taught what to do if you hear gunfire in the building. How does a child reconcile those two messages? How do we encourage children to feel comfortable enough to learn and build relationships when they are also being prepared for the possibility that someone in their school could try to hurt them?

    And what happens when the person they are being asked to protect themselves from is another child?

    I find that question particularly difficult because school is one of the places where children learn how to relate to one another. They learn to share space, resolve disagreements, navigate differences, and build friendships. They are still developing emotionally and socially, learning how to understand their own feelings and the behavior of others.

    When a shooting occurs, people naturally look for explanations. We ask whether there were warning signs, whether someone noticed concerning behavior, and whether anything could have been done to prevent the event. Those questions matter, but the adults responsible for children do not always have all the information, and not every act of violence can be predicted in advance.

    If adults cannot always anticipate what will happen, how much responsibility are we placing on children when we ask them to anticipate danger, interpret the behavior of others, and remember how to respond in a life-threatening situation?

    We cannot expect children to identify future perpetrators by judging who seems different, withdrawn, angry, or difficult to understand. Nor should we make them feel responsible for preventing violence that adults and institutions themselves may not be able to predict. We can teach age-appropriate safety skills and encourage children to tell a trusted adult when something genuinely concerns them without placing the burden of threat detection on their shoulders.

    And this conversation cannot leave educators out.

    Teachers and school staff are not simply the adults standing at the front of the room, reassuring children that everything will be okay. They are people who may have their own concerns about safety, their own emotional responses to school shootings, and their own responsibilities outside the classroom. They may be expected to help children manage fear while also managing their own.

    What does it mean for someone entering the teaching profession to prepare for the possibility of protecting children from harm? How safe do educators feel in the environments where they work? What support do they receive when they have concerns? And how much confidence can they place in the safety procedures they are taught, particularly when no training can guarantee how an emergency will unfold?

    School leadership also has a role to play in implementing safety policies, communicating with staff and families, and supporting students after frightening events. Having a procedure on paper is not the same as knowing how people experience it in practice. We need to consider not only whether safety measures exist, but whether students and staff understand them, have opportunities to ask questions, and receive support for the emotional effects these procedures may bring.

    Perhaps the larger question is not simply whether children are afraid. It is what happens when fear becomes part of an environment they are required to enter every day, and whether the adults around them recognize the emotional weight they may be carrying.

    What are we asking children to carry when we tell them school is a place to learn, grow, and make friends while also preparing them for the possibility that they may need to hide from someone who wants to hurt them?

    Making Room for the Conversation

    I think it is important to understand that children view the world through a different lens. It is a lens we have all looked through at one point in our lives, but as adults, we can sometimes forget what it was like to experience the world as a child.

    As I continue my journey toward becoming a social worker, one of the first courses I took was Human Behavior in the Social Environment. One of the important concepts we explored was understanding a person within the context of their environment. We cannot fully understand someone’s experiences without considering the environments in which they live, learn, work, and develop. I believe this perspective is especially important when we talk about children and the school environments they are expected to navigate.

    For many children, school is a significant part of their lives. It is where they learn, build friendships, develop social skills, discover their interests, and begin to understand the world around them. Although alternatives such as homeschooling and private education exist, school remains a central part of childhood for many families. The experiences children have in these environments can influence more than their education. They may also shape their sense of belonging, relationships, and understanding of safety.

    We have developed safety procedures, emergency drills, and programs intended to prepare students and school personnel for the possibility of violence. News reports and social media also keep these events in public view. But I find myself wondering whether we are giving enough attention to the emotional experiences of the children who are expected to live, learn, and grow in these environments.

    Preparing children for an emergency is not the same as understanding how they feel about the possibility of one. Conducting a drill does not automatically tell us whether a child feels safe, what they understand about the exercise, or whether the experience leaves them with questions or fears they do not know how to express. We need to make room for those conversations, listen to what children tell us, and continue examining how they are experiencing their school environments over time.

    I also believe we must remember that educators are part of this conversation. Teachers and school staff enter their workplaces with responsibilities to educate, guide, and support children. They, too, deserve to feel safe and supported. Understanding the emotional impact of school violence means considering the experiences of everyone who learns and works in these environments, not placing the responsibility for safety on children or educators alone.

    Why does this matter? Because the future of our children matters. If concerns about violence begin to influence how children experience school, we need to understand what that means for their emotional well-being, development, relationships, and education. We also need to be willing to examine whether the measures we have in place are meeting both their physical and emotional needs. These questions require ongoing attention, even when the answers are difficult to measure or may differ from one child to another.

    Listening to children does not mean assuming that every child is afraid or that every child will respond to these experiences in the same way. It means creating opportunities for them to express what they are feeling without dismissing their concerns. It also means being willing to act on what we learn. If children tell us that they do not feel safe, we should not simply reassure them that everything will be fine. We should take their concerns seriously, seek to understand what is contributing to those feelings, and consider what changes or support may be needed.

    As we continue to examine school shootings, media exposure, and the emotional experiences of children and educators, I believe we must also remain open to questions we do not yet have clear answers to. How do these experiences shape a child’s sense of safety over time? What kinds of support help children process their fears? And is there a grief-related component to some of these experiences that deserves further investigation? We should not assume the answers, but we should be willing to ask the questions.

    Our children’s voices matter. Their experiences matter. And if the environments in which they are expected to learn and grow no longer feel safe to them, we have a responsibility to understand why and consider what must change.

    And perhaps that is where this conversation must begin: not with assumptions about what children are feeling, but with a willingness to listen, to understand, and to take their experiences seriously.

    References

    American Psychological Association. (n.d.). Grief. https://www.apa.org/topics/grief

    Cabral, M., Kim, B., Rossin-Slater, M., Schnell, M., & Schwandt, H. (2026). Trauma at school: The impacts of school shootings on students’ human capital and economic outcomes. The Review of Economic Studies, 93(1), 327 onward. https://doi.org/10.1093/restud/rdad087

    Gallup. (2018). Some U.S. teachers consider career change over safety fears. https://news.gallup.com/poll/231572/teachers-consider-career-change-safety-fears.aspx

    Gaudette, T., Petrie, E. S., Chermak, S. M., & Freilich, J. D. (2024). Media coverage of school shootings: A distortion analysis of incident and perpetrator characteristics. Crime & Delinquency, 72(1). https://doi.org/10.1177/00111287231211263

    Hodges, J. C., Walker, D. T., Baum, C. F., & Hawkins, S. S. (2023). Impact of school shootings on adolescent school safety, 2009–2019. American Journal of Public Health, 113(4), 438–441. https://doi.org/10.2105/AJPH.2022.307206

    Koo, G. H. (2023). Are you frightened? Children’s cognitive and affective reactions to news coverage of school shootings. Mass Communication and Society, 26(1), 1–22. https://doi.org/10.1080/15205436.2021.1996609

    Martins, N., Scharrer, E., & Riddle, K. (2025). News exposure, depression, and PTSD symptoms among adolescents in the US: A case study of the Uvalde school shooting. Journal of Children and Media, 19(3), 499–517. https://doi.org/10.1080/17482798.2024.2443664

    McMahon, S. D., Worrell, F., Reddy, L. A., Martinez, A., Espelage, D. L., Astor, R. A., Anderman, E. M., Valido, A., Swenski, T., Perry, A. H., Dudek, C. M., & Bare, K. (2024). Violence and aggression against educators and school personnel, retention, stress, and training needs: National survey results. American Psychologist, 79(7), 903–919. https://doi.org/10.1037/amp0001348

    National Center for Education Statistics. (n.d.). Digest of education statistics: Table 228.12. Number of school-associated violent deaths and school shootings. https://nces.ed.gov/programs/digest/d22/tables/dt22_228.12.asp

    Parkes, C. M. (n.d.). Grieving and mourning: The psychology of bereavement. [Confirm the edition and publication details of the version consulted.]

    Peist, E., McMahon, S. D., Davis-Wright, J. O., & Keys, C. B. (2024). Understanding teacher-directed violence and related turnover through a school climate framework. Psychology in the Schools, 61(1), 220–236. https://doi.org/10.1002/pits.23044

    Rasberry, C. N., Sheremenko, G., Lesesne, C. A., Rose, I. D., Adkins, S. H., Barrios, L. C., Holland, K. M., Sims, V., O’Connor, K., Grasso, D. J., James, S. R., & Simon, T. R. (2020). Student-reported school safety perceptions, connectedness, and absenteeism following a multiple-fatality school shooting: Broward County, Florida, February 14–21, 2018. Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report, 69(9), 231–235. https://doi.org/10.15585/mmwr.mm6909a3

    Riehm, K. E., Mojtabai, R., Adams, L. B., Krueger, E. A., Mattingly, D. T., Nestadt, P. S., & Leventhal, A. M. (2021). Adolescents’ concerns about school violence or shootings and association with depressive, anxiety, and panic symptoms. JAMA Network Open, 4(11), e2132131. https://doi.org/10.1001/jamanetworkopen.2021.32131

  • A Grief Moment 101: Grief Theories and Models

    A Grief Moment 101: Grief Theories and Models

    Written by Tiff | A Grief Moment

    Have you ever heard someone say that grief has five stages?

    Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.

    Many of us have heard these words before. Some of us may even use them to explain what happens when a person experiences a loss.

    But have you ever stopped to think about what these stages actually mean? Or whether everyone experiences grief that way?

    Let’s talk about that.

    Over the years, researchers have developed different theories and models to help us understand grief. These frameworks give us ways to explore how people respond to loss, how they adjust to changes in their lives, and how they learn to live with what has happened.

    But here’s something important to understand: a theory or model is a way of understanding grief. It is not a set of rules that every grieving person must follow.

    Let’s look at a few approaches that have shaped our understanding.

    The Five Stages of Grief

    Developed by psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, the five-stage model introduced the concepts of denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

    Kübler-Ross originally developed this framework through her work with people facing terminal illness. Over time, the model became widely associated with grief following the death of a loved one.

    You may recognize some of these experiences in yourself or someone you know. A person might struggle to accept a loss, feel angry about what happened, wonder what could have been done differently, experience deep sadness, or gradually acknowledge the reality of the loss.

    However, research has raised important questions about treating these experiences as predictable stages of bereavement.

    Not everyone experiences all five. They do not necessarily occur in a particular order, and acceptance is not a deadline that someone must reach to prove they are healing.

    The model has historical significance, but it should not be used to tell people how they are supposed to grieve (Avis, Stroebe, & Schut, 2021).

    The Dual Process Model

    Researchers Margaret Stroebe and Henk Schut developed the Dual Process Model to help explain how people cope with bereavement.

    This model recognizes that grieving can involve moving between two kinds of experiences.

    One is loss-oriented coping. This may involve missing the person who died, confronting painful memories, or trying to understand the loss.

    The other is restoration-oriented coping. This involves adjusting to the changes the loss brings, such as managing responsibilities, rebuilding routines, or learning how to navigate everyday life without the person who died.

    People may move between these experiences. They might spend one day talking about the person they lost and another day focusing on work, family, or ordinary responsibilities.

    Neither experience cancels out the other.

    Taking a break from grief does not mean a person has forgotten their loved one. And having a difficult day after a better one does not automatically mean they are moving backward.

    This model helps us understand why grief can involve both confronting a loss and finding moments of respite from it (Stroebe & Schut, 1999).

    Worden’s Tasks of Mourning

    Psychologist J. William Worden offered another way to understand bereavement by focusing on tasks that people may work through as they adjust to a death.

    These include acknowledging the reality of the loss, experiencing and processing the pain of grief, adjusting to a life changed by the death, and finding ways to maintain a connection with the person who died while continuing to live.

    Think about that last part for a moment.

    Moving forward does not have to mean leaving someone behind.

    People may continue to carry memories, traditions, lessons, and parts of their relationship with the person who died. Their lives may change, but the meaning of that relationship can remain.

    Worden’s framework gives us a way to consider the work of mourning without assuming that every person will experience grief in exactly the same way (Worden, 1996).

    Why Do These Models Matter?

    Because the way we understand grief can influence the way we respond to people who are grieving.

    If we believe everyone must move through the same stages, we might question someone who is not experiencing them.

    If we believe grief should follow a predictable timeline, we might mistake a difficult day for a lack of progress.

    And if we believe moving forward means letting go completely, we might overlook the many ways people continue to find meaning in their relationships after a death.

    These models remind us that grief is complex. No single framework explains every person’s experience, every kind of loss, or every influence that shapes the grieving process.

    The goal is not to find the perfect model and fit every person into it.

    The goal is to understand people better.

    Because behind every theory is a human experience, and behind every experience is a person whose loss, relationships, culture, circumstances, and needs deserve to be understood.

    Grief is not a test you pass by following the right steps. Understanding grief means making room for the many ways people experience loss, find meaning, and learn to live with what has changed.

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

    Sources

    1. Avis, K. A., Stroebe, M., & Schut, H. (2021). Stages of grief portrayed on the Internet: A systematic analysis and critical appraisal. Frontiers in Psychology, 12, Article 772696. https://doi.org/10.3389/fpsyg.2021.772696
    2. Stroebe, M., & Schut, H. (1999). The dual process model of coping with bereavement: Rationale and description. Death Studies, 23(3), 197–224. https://doi.org/10.1080/074811899201046
    3. Worden, J. W. (1996). Tasks and mediators of mourning: A guideline for the mental health practitioner. In Session: Psychotherapy in Practice, 2(4), 73–80. https://doi.org/10.1002/(SICI)1520-6572(199624)2:4%3C73::AID-SESS7%3E3.0.CO;2-9
    4. Fiore, J. (2021). A systematic review of the Dual Process Model of Coping With Bereavement (1999–2016). OMEGA: Journal of Death and Dying, 84(2), 414–458. https://doi.org/10.1177/0030222819893139

  • A Grief Moment 101: What Grief Looks Like

    A Grief Moment 101: What Grief Looks Like

    Written by Tiff | A Grief Moment

    When we think about grief, many of us picture someone crying, feeling sad, or missing someone they love.

    But grief doesn’t always look the way we expect it to.

    Sometimes, grief looks like tears. Sometimes, it looks like silence. Sometimes, it looks like someone going to work, taking care of their children, answering messages, and carrying on with their day while trying to figure out how to live with something that has changed their life.

    Grief can show up in our emotions, our bodies, our thoughts, and our everyday behaviors. And sometimes, we don’t even recognize that what we’re experiencing may be connected to a loss.

    Emotionally, grief may look like sadness, anger, guilt, anxiety, numbness, or even relief. You might feel okay one moment and overwhelmed the next. You can miss someone and still have moments of happiness. You can feel relief after a difficult situation ends and still grieve what that experience meant to you.

    Physically, grief may leave you feeling exhausted, affect your sleep or appetite, or make it difficult to find the energy to do things that once felt easy. Sometimes, the emotional weight of a loss shows up in your body before you have the words to explain what you’re feeling.

    Mentally, you might find yourself forgetting things, struggling to concentrate, having difficulty making decisions, or replaying certain memories and conversations in your mind. Even simple tasks can feel harder when you’re trying to process a significant change or loss.

    Behaviorally, grief may look like withdrawing from people, avoiding reminders, keeping yourself busy, crying unexpectedly, or not wanting to talk about what happened. Some people need company and conversation. Others need quiet and space. Some people want to talk about their loss, while others aren’t ready.

    And here’s something else worth remembering: grief doesn’t always follow a loss that other people recognize.

    It may come after the end of a relationship, the loss of a friendship, a major health change, losing a job, leaving a familiar home, or realizing that the future you imagined for yourself may no longer happen the way you expected.

    The way grief shows up can depend on the person, the loss, their circumstances, and the support they have around them. There isn’t one pattern that everyone follows, and there isn’t one way that grief is supposed to look.

    So, we have to be careful about making assumptions.

    Someone can be laughing and still be grieving. Someone can look strong and still be struggling. Someone can appear to be moving forward while privately trying to make sense of what they’ve lost.

    And someone who isn’t crying isn’t necessarily someone who isn’t hurting.

    We cannot always see grief, and we cannot measure its weight by what someone shows us.

    Sometimes, the people who seem to be doing just fine are carrying things we know nothing about. That doesn’t mean we should assume everyone is struggling behind the scenes. It means we can give one another a little more room, a little more patience, and a little more understanding.

    Because grief doesn’t have to look a certain way to deserve compassion.

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

    Sources:

    American Psychological Association. (n.d.). Grief. https://www.apa.org/topics/grief

    Mayo Clinic News Network. (2025). Mayo Clinic Q&A: Managing grief during the holiday season.

    Stroebe, M., & Schut, H. (1999). The dual process model of coping with bereavement: Rationale and description. Death Studies, 23(3), 197–224. https://doi.org/10.1080/074811899201046

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