Growing up with Grief

On February 26, 2007, I was a six-year-old kid excited to get home from school because it was my mom's birthday. I had even told my teacher about the pink tracksuit I planned to wear to school the next day. But I didn't go back to school the next day. The events that unfolded when I got home that evening are ones that still occupy my mind nearly 20 years later. My mom had been struggling with her mental health in ways I was too young to fully understand. The extent of those struggles would become painfully apparent that night. Instead of celebrating her 37th birthday, my mother died by suicide.

The days that followed were confusing. At six years old, I was not only learning what suicide meant, but also trying to understand that it was how my mother had died. There was a funeral, there were cards, and people offering their condolences. But eventually, the funeral came and went, the cards stopped filling our mailbox, and people returned to their everyday lives. I remember realizing that everyone else's world seemed to be moving forward, but mine hadn't.

In elementary school, we had a group called the "Lunch Bunch." Once a week, a few of us who had lost someone close to us would eat lunch together in a separate room. We'd watch movies, play games, or simply do whatever we felt like while we ate. Looking back, it was such a simple concept, but it meant something to me. For that brief period each week, I was surrounded by other kids who understood, at least in some way, what it felt like to lose someone. It made things feel a little less lonely.

By middle school, I had grown accustomed to what I called the "mom talk." It was the conversation I felt obligated to have whenever someone noticed that I only ever mentioned my dad. Middle school is difficult enough on its own. You're not really a little kid anymore (or at least you don't think you are) but you're not quite a teenager either. Like most kids that age, I was trying to figure out who I was, what I liked, and where I belonged. But I was also beginning to recognize all the things I was missing. I didn't have my mom to talk to about the changes I was going through. She wasn't there to teach me how to do my hair, help me figure out what clothes looked good together, or answer the questions I didn't necessarily want to ask my dad. And sometimes, it wasn't even the big things I missed. My mom used to redecorate our house while I was at school. I'd come home to find that she'd rearranged a room or changed something around, and it would feel like walking into an entirely new space. I missed those little surprises. It's strange how grief works. Sometimes you miss the milestones someone wasn't there for. Other times, you just miss coming home to find that the furniture has been moved.

High school was when things took a turn. As I got older, my sadness began to make room for resentment. I was angry that my mom wasn't there. I struggled with feelings of abandonment, and I began to question why I hadn't been enough of a reason for her to stay. I also began experiencing my own mental health challenges, substance use, and behavioral issues. And, to put it lightly, I wasn't particularly fond of authority. Now, I want to be careful here. I don't believe my mother's death is the sole reason I became what some might call a "bad" teenager. People are complicated, and so are the circumstances that shape us. But I share this part of my story because I think it illustrates something we don't talk about enough: grief doesn't always look like grief.

By high school, I wasn't crying about my mom every day. I wasn't constantly talking about her, and I probably wasn't even consciously thinking about her much of the time. But that didn't mean her death had stopped affecting me. Grief, especially when experienced at a young age, can influence the way we see ourselves, the relationships we form, and the things we believe we deserve. Somewhere along the way, I had convinced myself that I wasn't worthy of love or happiness and I began making choices and putting myself in situations that seemed to reinforce that belief.

I was no longer seen as the little girl who had lost her mother. I had become the teenager who had "gone off the rails." And I think that's where we sometimes fail grieving children. We recognize their grief when they're young, when they're crying, when the loss is recent, and when their pain is easy to understand. But what happens five years later? Ten years later? What happens when that grieving child becomes an angry teenager? When their sadness turns into defiance? When they start struggling in school, acting out, or engaging in risky behaviors? Do we still recognize that grief may be part of what we're seeing? Or do we simply label them a problem? Even now, at 26 years old, I sometimes struggle to find compassion for the teenage version of myself. And ironically, that compassion was probably what I needed most.

One year ago, through my involvement with the Dartmouth Rotary Club, I founded Sunflowers for Sallie, a youth grief awareness initiative named in memory of my mother. I wanted to address something I felt was missing from conversations surrounding suicide awareness and prevention: what happens to the people left behind, especially the children? We dedicate important time and resources to suicide prevention, as we should. But I believe we also need to give greater attention to the long-term needs of children and families after a suicide death. Suicide is an incredibly complicated loss to grieve, even for adults. For children, it can introduce emotions and questions they may not yet have the language or developmental capacity to understand: guilt, anger, confusion, sadness, abandonment, the list goes on... Questions about why someone died, whether they could have prevented it, and what that loss says about their own worth. And those questions don't necessarily disappear with time. Sometimes they change as a child grows old enough to understand the loss in entirely new ways. A child who loses a parent at six doesn't experience that loss only at six. They experience it again at twelve, sixteen, at graduation, and every milestone that follows.

That's why I believe support for grieving children cannot end once the funeral is over or once life appears to have returned to normal. It needs to evolve alongside them. I also believe the adults who interact with grieving children, particularly educators, caregivers, and other community professionals, deserve the knowledge and resources to recognize when a child's behavior may be communicating something deeper. We cannot expect every teacher to be a grief counselor, but we can work toward making sure they feel better prepared to respond with understanding rather than judgment.

According to estimates from the National Alliance for Children's Grief (NACG), approximately six million children in the United States will experience the death of a parent or sibling by age 18, representing roughly one in twelve children. In Massachusetts alone, that figure exceeds 102,000 children. And the number of young people affected by these losses grows considerably when we look beyond childhood and into early adulthood. These aren't just statistics: they're children sitting in classrooms, playing on sports teams, spending time with friends, and trying to navigate a world that has changed in ways their peers may not fully understand. Research has also identified associations between childhood bereavement and increased risks of mental health challenges, substance use, and suicidal behavior. These outcomes are not inevitable, but they reinforce why timely, compassionate, and ongoing support matters. Suicide bereavement can introduce additional challenges, including stigma, unanswered questions, and feelings of guilt or rejection. While no two children will experience grief in exactly the same way, every child deserves to know that they don't have to navigate it alone.

Over the past year, Sunflowers for Sallie has grown from an idea rooted in my personal loss into a community initiative with a much larger purpose. We've brought people together, started important conversations about childhood grief, connected with community members and organizations, and begun laying the groundwork for projects that we hope will make a meaningful difference. Through our fundraising efforts and the support of the Dartmouth Rotary Club, we've started building the foundation for what Sunflowers for Sallie can become. But raising awareness was never meant to be the finish line. Awareness is important. It helps us recognize problems, challenge stigma, and begin conversations that might otherwise never happen. However, awareness alone cannot provide a grieving child with the support they need. At some point, we have to take the conversations we've started and turn them into action. 

One of our priorities moving forward is building a trusted network of funeral homes, first responders, law enforcement, clergy, social service agencies, and other community professionals who interact with families following a death. Through these partnerships, we hope to connect grieving children and families with age-appropriate care packages, bereavement resources, and information about additional support. We aren't trying to replace the important work of grief counselors or established bereavement organizations. Rather, we want to help bridge the gap between families who need support and the resources that may already exist in their communities. Sometimes, knowing where to turn is the first challenge.

We're also exploring opportunities to sponsor grief-awareness presentations and professional development for educators, caregivers, and other professionals who work with children. I often wonder how differently some of my teenage experiences might have unfolded if the adults around me had been better equipped to recognize the ways grief can change as children grow. Our hope is to help adults better understand childhood grief, recognize signs of distress, and respond in ways that are informed, compassionate, and supportive. Because sometimes the difference between a child feeling misunderstood and a child feeling supported begins with an adult asking a different question. Instead of asking, "What's wrong with this kid?" what if we asked, "What might this child be going through?"

Another initiative we're working toward is the Wind Phone Project, something I'm particularly excited about. A Wind Phone is a disconnected telephone that provides a symbolic space for people to speak to loved ones who have died. There is no one on the other end of the line, but that's not the point. The idea is to provide a quiet space where someone can say the things they wish they could still say, share memories, or simply express feelings they may struggle to put into words elsewhere. We're currently working toward developing a portable Wind Phone installation designed with children in mind, and we're seeking a school interested in collaborating on our first pilot. Grief can be difficult to explain, particularly for children who may not feel comfortable talking openly about their loss. We hope this project can offer another avenue for reflection and expression.

None of these initiatives will eliminate grief. Nothing can undo the loss of someone you love. But they represent ways we can make the experience a little less isolating, a little less confusing, and a little more supported. 

This November, we're inviting our community to be part of the next chapter of Sunflowers for Sallie. Our annual Sunflowers for Sallie Friendsgiving fundraiser is an opportunity to come together, reflect on how far we've come, and help build the resources and partnerships needed to move these initiatives forward. Every donation, sponsorship, partnership, and person who gets involved helps us get closer to turning these plans into reality.

When I started Sunflowers for Sallie, I knew I couldn't change what happened to the six-year-old girl who lost her mother on February 26, 2007. I couldn't give her back the birthdays, the conversations, the little surprises after school, or the years she would spend trying to make sense of what happened. But I could try to change what happens next for other children like her. I think about that little girl often. I think about the teenager she became, the things she struggled with, and the compassion she didn't always know how to ask for. And I think about how many children are growing up right now carrying feelings they don't yet know how to explain. We cannot prevent every child from experiencing loss. But together, we can help ensure that no child has to navigate it alone. Whether you're an educator, a community professional, a local business, or simply someone who believes grieving children deserve better support, I hope you'll consider being part of this work. Join us at Friendsgiving this November, make a donation, become a community partner, or help us spread the word. Your support will help us move beyond awareness and toward meaningful action for children and families navigating grief.

Learn more about Sunflowers for Sallie and how to get involved at https://paaca.org/sunflowers4sallie.

Buy tickets for November 19th Fundraiser: https://www.eventbrite.com/e/sunflowers-for-sallie-2nd-annual-friendsgiving-fundraiser-tickets-2002805011704?aff=oddtdtcreator