“Mom, I want my gravestone to have writing on it, okay? Promise me it will say something, so people will remember me,” my daughter, Lily, said, tears streaming down her cheeks and pooling in the pillowcase decorated with bright polka dots.
Lily is on the brink of turning 11, and there’s no reason she should be contemplating her own funeral. She’s full of life, a jokester at heart, obsessed with Taylor Swift, yet lately, she’s been wrestling with thoughts about death. It appears to be one of those emotional surprises that crop up during puberty. As I lie there listening to her, I can’t help but reflect on how my own childhood fears are surfacing as I guide my kids through life.
In a world where the news cycle is dominated by stories of tragedy, discussions about death are unavoidable. While I try to limit the news exposure for my kids, it’s growing increasingly difficult. Not having all the answers about mortality feels a bit more daunting than convincing a toddler to eat their veggies or take a nap.
My own worries about death began when I was just 7 years old, mostly focused on the idea of losing loved ones. The anticipation of my parents’ divorce loomed five years away, yet I was already gripped by a fear of abandonment. I’ll never forget hearing about a local tragedy involving a mother and her children; it shook me to my core. Now, as I navigate my daughter’s fears, I realize I can’t simply brush them aside.
“Do you believe in Heaven, Mom?” she asked, panic lacing her voice.
“I believe something happens, and parts of us carry on,” I replied, trying to offer comfort.
“But where? Is it called Heaven?” she pressed.
I hesitated, grappling with the fine line between providing false hope and a sense of comfort. We’re not religious; I haven’t introduced her to biblical tales. “I think when we die, we find the happiest moments of our lives again—no more pain,” I explained.
“When were you happiest? Was it before me? How will we find each other?” Her tears became more intense.
“I have moments when I feel Grandpa with me—the sound of his laughter, the smell of his old jacket. It’s like he’s not entirely gone,” I said, hoping it would resonate.
“Grandma mentioned that Buddha says you get reborn into another family. But how will I find you in a new family?” she asked, her eyes wide with concern.
I smiled gently. “Sweetheart, we’re not Buddhist, but I would recognize you anywhere. You know how songs get covered by different artists? You can still hear the original tune beneath the new voice. We’ll always know each other’s song.”
She took a shaky breath, seeming to absorb this.
“Here’s what I know, my dear. I’m trying to make healthy choices every day, and I’m also teaching you things that will stay with you. You know how I say it’s my job to give you the tools to make good choices when I’m not around? I hope we can do that with love.”
“But what if I die before you? How will I find you? What should I do?” The desperation in her voice was palpable.
“I don’t know,” I admitted, feeling a surge of tears.
“What do we do, then? How do we know?” she wailed, and I felt my heart ache.
I gently cupped her face and kissed her shoulder. “We take every moment we share and tuck it away in our hearts. Those whispered ‘I love yous’ and our laughter at bedtime—they all become light for us to carry as we grow. You won’t be lost,” I reassured her.
“I just want to be remembered and not feel alone,” she said softly.
“And I don’t want you to feel alone either, my love.” We held each other tightly and cried, her question still hanging in the air.
Navigating these conversations about mortality is tough, but it’s also a chance to connect and reassure our kids that they are loved and remembered.
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Summary
Discussing mortality with a tween can be challenging yet deeply meaningful. In this heartfelt conversation, a mother reassures her daughter about love, memory, and the connections that endure beyond life.