Death is a heavy topic, no matter how old you are. It’s heartbreaking and can put your life on hold as you adjust to your new reality without your loved one. It can even make you spin a 180 and scramble to find your footing again.

When you yourself are in mourning, it’s even harder when you then must explain to your sweet, innocent kids that this person or beloved pet is no longer here.

I remember losing my grandpa when I was seven. Did I understand it? Not really. I knew on a superficial level what my family meant when they said, “Grandpa didn’t make it. He’s in Heaven now.” But did I really, truly understand the permanence of that? Not one bit.

The first death I experienced that I fully grasped and felt was when I was about seventeen. My childhood dog, whom I’d had since I was three, passed away. She’d lived a long life. As a Golden Retriever, Sasha was loyal, gentle, loving, and protective of me. She made it to the ripe age of fourteen before she started having strokes.

The first time, I came home to find her lying down, unable to stand because she was so dizzy. Sasha’s eyes were rolling repeatedly, as though she were searching for some focus. Every time she tried to stand, she fell back down with a heart-wrenching thud. There were piles of vomit from her being so nauseas. For a while after, we had to re teach her to walk and help her outside to go to the bathroom. She used to sleep in my bedroom upstairs, but now the stairs were impossible for her. I stayed downstairs on the couch for several nights to be with her until she recovered. I knew this was the beginning of the end for her, and my young, innocent heart was breaking for the first time.

Sasha had a couple more strokes after that, and as we contemplated the reality of possibly needing to make that tough decision whether to put her down or not, she ended up passing on her own one cold morning in November. As I stared at her motionless body through my tears, I swore I saw her breathing, but it was just my hopeful imagination. My niece Kierra was only about six at the time, and for a long while after she kept saying how she missed Sasha. I knew she didn’t truly understand the gravity of death yet, because I had been there not long before.

Many years and deaths later, my husband and I had to make that difficult decision to put our Chocolate Lab down. We’d adopted Tanner when he was four, and at the time that our oldest daughter Ember was about to turn three, our family dog had just turned fifteen. Tanner had a long, happy life running alongside me as I rode my horses, moving to the countryside, and welcoming both of our daughters into the world. But now he had started to be in constant pain from arthritis, we could feel some sort of tumor growing inside his abdomen, and he had another growing right next to his eye, bleeding often and blocking his vision. He started having more and more issues, and when the day came that he didn’t show any desire to go on a walk or car ride, we knew he was ready.

At this point, my husband and I had researched what to say to kids regarding death. We learned that many therapists heavily pushed the “be honest” policy. Don’t use euphemisms, as that can scare a kid. Think about it – if you say, “He went to sleep,” she is going to be terrified that whenever any of us (herself included) go to sleep, we may not wake up. 

So, when I was getting ready to take Tanner in to the vet, we told Ember that he was leaving and wasn’t coming back, and that he was dying. It was incredibly difficult to utter that word, “dying.” It seemed so harsh and blunt, but I didn’t want to say something that was difficult for her to grasp. As it was, she didn’t understand that he really wasn’t going to be around anymore. She pet him, gave him kiss, and said goodbye, and a second later was bouncing around saying, “Let’s go play on my swing set!”

Less than a year later, my father-in-law took his own life. Although we believe Ember still isn’t ready to hear that part of it, we did, of course, tell her that he had died. By this time, she knew it was a sad thing, but still didn’t really understand. For a long while, she would ask if we could go visit Papa in Heaven, or when he was coming back. We had to explain that Heaven was a one-way ticket and he wasn’t coming back, nor were we going to visit for (hopefully) a long time.

As we approach the one-year anniversary of Papa’s death, we suffered another loss just this past Friday morning. My husband and I had adopted a cat from the shelter when we were newlyweds back in 2007. I’m not a cat person, but I am an animal person, and Cali was a wonderful cat. She was mellow and loved the kids. They carried her around by her neck quite often, and Cali would simply fall limp and allow it – she’d even be purring! But Cali was aging, and while we expected a few more years out of her at least, her hearing was starting to go. Late Friday morning, she got hit by a car.

Ember is now four and a half and she is starting to realize that when someone dies, they don’t come back. And while I believe she doesn’t fully grasp the concept of death, she is starting to. I sat her down and said, “Cali is not with us anymore. She has died and is in Heaven with Tanner and Papa.” Ember was clearly trying to sort through all of her thoughts and emotions when I first told her. She said simply, “Okay,” and remained still and quiet, full of thought. A moment later she came to me and threw herself in my arms and just let the tears fall. Throughout the day, she broke down several more times, sobbing in my arms and asking, “Why did she have to die?” It devastated my mama heart. 

Death is difficult, no matter what. And it’s not something I really want to teach my kids about. But unfortunately, it’s a part of life – life and death. I’m sure as Ember and Karissa get older, these conversations will only grow more difficult, because understanding death makes it harder to accept. But by easing them into it with honesty and without euphemisms, I’m hoping that I can help them to find acceptance and healing quicker. 

I’m hoping this tactic will help this mama to solidify a basis of honesty and openness with my kiddos. It’s okay to be sad, it’s okay to cry. It is not a weakness, but rather a strength, a source of healing. While the pain of loss never truly goes away, it does get easier as your grief transforms into happy memories and gratitude for the time you had with your loved ones (and fur-babies).