When a Child Weeps with Their Mother: Remembering My First Encounter with Grief

By Dr. Tammy Isaac

The earliest death I can remember is the death of my grandmother, Disney James. I don’t remember how old I was, only that I was under twelve. I had never met her, and I’m not even sure I fully understood what a grandmother was at that age. What I did know was that she was someone my mother loved deeply, and that made me want to know her too.

My family are immigrants from the West Indies, and my twin brother and I were the only two American-born children. My grandmother never made it to the United States, so her death meant I lost the chance to ever meet her. One thing I later learned we shared in common was that we were both fraternal twins. Her twin’s name was Dennis, and my twin’s name is Timmy. Somehow, knowing that connects us across generations in a way I never got to experience in life.

What I remember most vividly was the moment I found out she had died. I was sitting in the choir stand with the other children at church when it must have been announced to the congregation. I looked out and saw my mother in the audience begin to cry. Then I began to cry. I remember kneeling on the ground, overwhelmed by emotion I didn’t understand. Someone took my mother out of the sanctuary and then came back for me. The image of her crying and me following her in tears has never left me.

At that age, I didn’t have the words to name what I was feeling. I only knew that something sacred had been broken. When I think of that moment today, I still grieve not knowing her. I regret not being curious enough to ask questions about who she was, what she was like, and how she lived. I mourn the relationship that never had a chance to exist, the stories, the hugs, and the wisdom that could have been passed down.

Reading Corr, Corr, and Doka (2024) in Death and Dying, Life and Living helped me understand that my reaction as a child was developmentally appropriate. Children in middle childhood are just beginning to grasp the finality and universality of death, but they often process it through emotional cues rather than cognitive understanding. My mother’s tears became my understanding of death. As the authors describe, children often mirror the emotions of the adults around them. Her pain became my pain, even before I fully understood what loss meant.

Culture also plays a role in how children grieve. In my West Indian family, emotions were felt deeply but rarely discussed openly. I wish someone had taken the time to tell me about my grandmother, to explain death in a way that a child could hold without fear or confusion. The authors emphasize how important open communication, storytelling, and meaning-making are in helping children process loss.

Today, I find comfort in what grief educators call continuing bonds, maintaining connection with loved ones who have died. As a child, I thought death meant you simply moved on. Now I know that love doesn’t end where life does. That bond can remain through memory, shared traits, and even quiet reflection. For me, that bond lives in our shared identity as twins. It’s the thread that ties my life to hers, across time, distance, and even death.

As we observe Children’s Grief Awareness Month, I think about children who, like me, have felt the weight of loss before they could name it. They need adults who will talk to them, listen to them, and help them understand that grief is not something to hide or rush through. It’s something to be held, honored, and shared.

Because sometimes, a child’s first experience with death isn’t about understanding it at all. It’s about feeling it through the eyes and tears of someone they love.

Listen: Supporting Children Through Loss — a special episode on the Permission to Breathe Podcast offering insights, tools, and hope for nurturing a child’s heart through grief on Spotify or Apple Podcast.