Holding Hands with Grief as We Approach the End of the School Year

Last year, as my daughter Zoey was finishing the first grade, I was surprised by how emotionally hard it was for both of us. The last two weeks of school were full of difficult mornings and challenging bedtimes, uncomfortable conversations of the unknowns, and a lot of tears. Her sister, Stella, had passed away just a few weeks before Zoey started Kindergarten, yet the end of that school year hadn’t been nearly as hard. Deep down, I had a sense that our struggle was likely connected to grief (so much in our lives is), but I couldn’t quite understand how.

This morning, while scrolling on my phone, I came across a post from an account that supports children in grief. It was a lightbulb moment. The post described how the end of the school year can often be difficult for children who have experienced loss. Suddenly, things started to make sense. Zoey is no stranger to loss and grief. She learned how to be a sister while holding grief’s hand. 

In some ways, Zoey had become familiar before I did. Like all siblings do, she had to manage sharing her parents with her little sister, but not in an equal way. At just three years old, she was thrown into a world of medical appointments and uncertainty, a world with less attention on her, a world where she was forced to withstand real life-or-death stress. And then, at age five, she experienced the death of her baby sister.

I talk all the time about how incredibly impressed I am with Zoey’s resilience, her empathy and understanding, and her mature ability to not just survive but thrive in the aftermath of Stella’s life and death. But sometimes, in my awe and admiration, I forget she’s just eight years old.  Yes, she has learned to hold grief, but that doesn’t change the fact that she’s still a child. Stella’s death forced Zoey to grow up in certain ways at such a young age. She deserves the space and time to be a kid.

Zoey had a hard time finishing first grade because she knew what school gives her. Bell to bell, she found structure, a schedule, and daily time with other kids. She had her people, her friends who were able to play and imagine the world in similar and comforting ways. And unlike a lot of her friends, she didn’t have siblings to come home to. I’m still working through the guilt of that last part. Zoey saw the end of the school year not as the beginning of a carefree summer, but rather the end of something stable and comforting and constant. And I saw time moving forward, yet again, in a world without Stella.

Grief sneaks up on us around many unseen corners. That’s something I’m learning to be comfortable with. But this year I’m ready for this one. Thanks to that post, I am approaching the transition into summer with greater awareness and intention. My plan is simple:

1. Do not assume Zoey’s feelings: ask her about them.
2. Carve out time to identify feelings and tend to them as they arise.
3. Create a structure for summer: a bucket list of things to look forward to.
4. Prioritize playdates, playground visits, and opportunities to connect with other kids.

And, as always, I’m going to remain flexible. I’ll pivot when needed, listen carefully, and learn alongside her. Hand in hand with Zoey. Hand in hand with grief.