Before I headed out for dinner with a friend, I quickly prepared a meal of chicken nuggets, steamed broccoli, and apple slices for my kids. I was grateful for my husband, Mark, who was watching them for the night, and I wanted to avoid any new food surprises that might lead to meltdowns before bedtime. As I rushed to kiss my 4-year-old son, Jake, and my 20-month-old daughter, Mia, on my way out, Jake mentioned something about chickens, but I didn’t catch it. I told him to be good for his dad and help his sister, then I left.
Once I sat down at the restaurant, I noticed a text message from Mark. “Just a heads up. Jake now knows that people die. He is not taking it well.”
Jake is incredibly sensitive—think about how he can’t even listen to soft acoustic love songs on the radio without tearing up. So, I knew this was going to be a challenging conversation. I trusted Mark to manage the situation while I enjoyed my evening with my friend.
When I got home, the kids were already tucked in bed. Mark filled me in on what had transpired. Jake’s earlier comment had been about the chicken nuggets and their connection to real chickens. We generally aim to be honest with our kids, so Mark explained that yes, those nuggets came from real chickens. We had addressed this topic before, but Jake usually didn’t make the connection between the meat on his plate and the animals it came from. However, this time, something clicked.
“But the chicken nuggets don’t have feathers,” Jake pointed out.
“Well, the feathers are removed before we cook them,” Mark explained.
Jake giggled, “So the chicken is naked when you cook it? Won’t it be cold?”
“The chicken doesn’t feel cold because it is killed before the feathers come off,” Mark responded.
And just like that, the conversation took a serious turn. Jake wanted to know if all chickens get killed, and Mark explained that while some are killed, others simply die of natural causes, but in the end, all animals die eventually.
“Do all animals die?” Jake asked.
“Yes, all animals eventually die,” Mark confirmed.
Then came the gut-wrenching question: “Will my pets die?”
We have two cats and a dog, and although Jake usually shows little interest in them, they’ve been part of our family since before he was born.
“Yes, one day our pets will die,” Mark said, which broke my heart.
I could hardly imagine anything sadder than a 4-year-old sobbing at the thought of losing his beloved pets. Mark attempted to comfort him, but the tears kept flowing.
“Do people die too?” Jake asked, his voice quivering.
“Yes, people die,” Mark replied.
This was a concept Jake had never encountered before, and we hadn’t expected to have to explain it to him so soon. I felt a wave of emotion as Mark recounted the story—not only because of the fear and sadness surrounding mortality, but also because this moment marked the loss of some of Jake’s childhood innocence. All over chicken nuggets.
Mark continued to share the details of Jake’s questions, and we both felt a sense of sadness. Jake wanted to know if we were going to die, and Mark reassured him that it wouldn’t be for a long time. But Jake’s cries of not wanting us to “leave” were heartbreaking.
“Did he ask what happens after we die?” I interrupted Mark, suddenly realizing the gravity of it all.
“No,” he replied, and I felt a wave of relief because we honestly didn’t know how to answer that question.
As atheists, we were raising our children without religious beliefs. We believe that death is simply the end of the story. No afterlife, no heaven, and definitely no ghostly hauntings. While this view can feel sad or scary at times, it’s not something we felt ready to explain to our 4-year-old.
I started to panic, knowing that Jake would probably have more questions in the morning. What would we say? I reached out to friends, and one mom shared how her daughter coped with the passing of her grandmother. She told her daughter that when we die, we become stars. If her daughter missed her great-grandmother, she could look up at the stars and find her.
That idea resonated with me. It wasn’t religious, it eased the fear of death’s finality, and it gave children something comforting to hold onto. It also echoed one of my favorite quotes from Carl Sagan: “The nitrogen in our DNA, the calcium in our teeth, the iron in our blood, the carbon in our apple pies were made in the interiors of collapsing stars. We are made of starstuff.”
The next morning, Jake woke up cheerful. When I asked about his feelings, he calmly recounted his conversation with Mark.
“He told me animals die and people die,” he said.
“Do you have any questions about that?” I asked.
“Do we have a video of the chicken dying?”
I was taken aback, thinking of the graphic factory farm videos I had seen and how I would manage his dietary choices if he decided to go vegetarian.
“No, we don’t have any videos of the chicken dying,” I replied.
“Can we buy the DVD?” he asked.
In that moment, I was reminded that he is still just a 4-year-old, capable of switching gears in an instant. The worries about his understanding of mortality faded, replaced by the hope that he would become a compassionate vegan instead of a serial killer.
In summary, this experience taught me that children can grapple with tough concepts like death earlier than we expect, and their questions can lead to profound discussions about life and loss. Having thoughtful responses ready can help ease their fears and allow them to process these difficult ideas.