“I want a gravestone with writing on it, okay? Promise me it will say something so people will remember me,” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks and pooling in the patterned pillowcase beneath her head.
My oldest daughter, just two weeks away from turning 11, is far too young to be contemplating the details of her own funeral. With her bright spirit, sharp wit, and love for pop music, her sudden fixation on death is one of the unexpected emotional challenges that often arise during adolescence. As I navigate my own parenting journey, I find myself reflecting on the fears that haunted me in my youth, realizing that they are now surfacing in my child.
In today’s world, where news of tragedy and violence is ever-present, conversations about death are unavoidable. While I try to manage my own exposure to distressing news, it becomes increasingly difficult to shield my children from the harsh realities around us. The uncertainty of discussing death feels more daunting than the everyday struggles of getting a toddler to eat their greens or take a nap.
My own worries about mortality began at a young age, primarily focused on the loss of loved ones rather than my own demise. I remember feeling a deep sense of fear about abandonment long before my parents’ divorce, which was years away. A chilling story about a local mother who harmed her children left a profound impact on me when I was just a year younger than my daughter. Reliving those childhood fears makes it impossible to brush aside her questions.
“Do you believe, Mom? Do you think there is a Heaven?” she asked, her voice trembling with anxiety.
“I believe that something happens after we die, and that parts of us continue on,” I replied.
“But where? How does it work? Is it Heaven?”
I hesitated, torn between offering false reassurance and the need to convey a sense of hope. We don’t attend church, and I haven’t introduced my daughters to biblical stories, nor do I feel equipped to do so.
“I think when we pass, we find a place free of pain, where we can relive our happiest moments,” I said gently.
“When were you the happiest? Was it before I was born? How will we find each other?” Her sobs grew more intense.
“There are moments in my day when I can feel Grandpa with me—his voice, the smell of his old jacket, the feeling of his whiskers on my cheek. It’s not something I can summon at will, but it feels like he’s still here in some way. Does that make sense?”
She looked puzzled, searching for clarity. “Grandma told me that Buddha thinks we come back in a new family. What if I can’t find you?”
Smiling softly, I reassured her, “Sweetheart, we’re not Buddhist, but if I had to summarize it, I would know you anywhere. It’s like when artists cover a song—you can always recognize the original beneath the new voice. We’ll always recognize each other’s song.”
She took a deep, shaky breath.
“Here’s what I can tell you, my dear. Every day, I strive to make healthy choices. I also aim to teach you lessons that will stay with you. Remember how I say it’s my job to equip you to make good decisions when I’m not around? I hope we can do this with love.”
“But what if something happens to me before you? How will I ever find you? What will I do?” The anguish in her eyes pierced my heart.
“I don’t know,” I admitted, tears welling up in my eyes.
Her eyes widened in panic. “So what do we do? How do we know?” She was crying, and I felt utterly helpless.
I cupped her face and kissed her shoulder. “We cherish every moment together, storing them deep within us. Our whispered ‘I love yous’ and laughter at bedtime become a light we carry with us as we grow. You won’t ever be lost.”
“I just want to be remembered and not feel alone.”
“I feel the same way, sweetheart.” We held each other tightly, both of us still grappling with the unanswered questions.