After Watching If Anything Happens I Love You: Practical Parenting Tips For Talking To Kids About Grief
Last night, I folded a pile of my 12-year-old’s soccer practice socks while I scrolled through short film recommendations on my phone, half-asleep after a day of school drop-offs, work meetings, and a burnt taco dinner. A friend posted about If Anything Happens I Love You, said it was 12 minutes long, worth making time for. I pressed play. By the end, I was sitting on the laundry room floor, a mismatched sock still crumpled in one hand, crying so hard my nose ran onto my old sweatshirt.
I didn’t expect it to hit that hard. A year ago, my daughter Lila’s 11-year-old classmate Mia died in a car crash on her way to a soccer game. After the funeral, after the flowers wilted and the meal trains ended, everyone sort of stopped talking about her. The school brought in a counselor for one group session, then it was back to math tests and fire drills like nothing had changed. I did the same thing. I caught myself avoiding Mia’s name around Lila, scared that bringing her up would upset her. When Lila stopped leaving her sketchbook open on the couch, when she’d close it fast if I walked in the room, I told myself she needed space. I didn’t push. We both walked on eggshells around the big, sad thing in the middle of our living room.
The short film, wordless and soft, showed me exactly what that looks like. Two parents shut themselves off from each other and from their grief, shoving all the reminders of their daughter into a dark corner, until her shadow sneaks back out and forces them to feel what they’ve been hiding. No big speeches, no dramatic confessions—just small, ordinary things: a spilled coffee, a swing still moving in the yard, a song that gets stuck on repeat. I recognized that numb, closed-off feeling immediately, because I’d been living it. I also saw it in Lila: she wasn’t “fine” and needing space. She was hiding her sadness to keep me from being sad.
The next morning, the alarm went off at 6:30 like it always does. I pulled out the pancake mix and stuck the bacon in the oven, same routine. I didn’t call Lila in for a big, serious talk about grief—those never work for preteens anyway, they just make them clam up. I just waited for her to slump into the kitchen chair, then I said, quiet, like I was talking about the weather, “I watched a short film last night that made me think of Mia. I still miss seeing her wait for you at the end of the driveway every morning.” I didn’t ask her how she felt. I just flipped a pancake and waited.
She pushed a blueberry around her plate for a full minute, then said, “I miss her too. I don’t say anything because you and Mom look all tight in the face when I say her name. I didn’t want to make you sad.” That line hit me harder than any part of the short film. Kids don’t process grief the way adults do, and a lot of the time, their first instinct isn’t to lash out or cry—it’s to protect you. They pick up on your discomfort, your urge to keep things calm and normal, and they tuck their own hurt away to keep the peace.
That conversation didn’t fix everything, but it opened a door. We did one small, concrete thing that weekend: we drove to the gas station out by the mall, bought a pack of the sour watermelon candies Mia always begged her mom for, then went to the park where the two of them used to swing after school. We left one candy on the swing they always shared, and Lila told me a story I’d never heard before: about how Mia pushed her so hard on the swings that Lila fell into the mulch, got a huge scratch on her knee, and they laughed so hard they couldn’t stand up long enough for the recess monitor to come over.
That’s the practical part I wish someone had told me after Mia died. You don’t need a degree in counseling to help your kid process grief. You don’t have to fix it, or make the hurt go away. There are three small, low-effort things that have worked for us that any parent or teacher can try:
First, name the person who’s gone. Stop avoiding their name to keep from upsetting anyone. Say it out loud, casually, in everyday conversation. It doesn’t have to be a big moment. It can be “Mia loved this flavor of chips” or “I remember when Mia’s dog got loose in our backyard.” Just saying the name tells your kid it’s okay to talk about them, whenever they want.
Second, don’t force them to talk if they don’t want to. A lot of kids can’t put grief into words, especially younger kids or preteens. Let them process it through action instead. Plant a flower in the person’s favorite spot. Leave their favorite snack at a place they loved. Draw a picture together and hang it up. You don’t have to say anything while you do it. Just being there with the memory is enough.
Third, share your own small feelings instead of asking them to share theirs. If you open with “How do you feel about Mia?” that puts a ton of pressure on them to have an answer, and most kids will just say “fine” to end the conversation. If you open with “I felt really sad when I drove past Mia’s house yesterday,” that’s low-stakes. It invites them to share if they want, and doesn’t demand anything if they don’t.
Lila still doesn’t talk about Mia every day. Some weeks she doesn’t mention her at all. I still catch myself pausing before I say Mia’s name sometimes, old habit. Her drawing of the two of them at the beach is taped to the fridge right now, next to her B+ math test and a silly doodle of our golden retriever. We still don’t have it all figured out. Grief doesn’t just go away after a few good conversations. But that 12-minute short film knocked down the wall I’d built up around the whole thing, and I’m grateful for that. We’re still learning, it’s still messy, but that’s okay. It’s better than leaving all that good memory locked in the dark.
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