When A Child Loses A Peer
There are conversations you dread having to have with your child.
Death is one of them.
But when your child lives with congenital heart disease, like my Lucy does, or any other chronic condition, you live in a world where life feels more delicate, where specialist visits and surgeries are part of the rhythm, and meeting other kids and families going through the same challenges is a blessing in disguise.
Having that community is a gift. But it also means that when loss comes, it’s close to home. It’s personal.
Last year, Lucy lost a friend.
Another heart warrior.
They were close in age, shared matching chest scars, Camp Bon Coeur memories, and jokes only kids who’ve walked through too much too soon really understand. And then, just like that, her friend was gone.
Lucy looked at me when I told her, and I saw something shift behind her eyes. Not shock, not confusion, something heavier. Something like realization. I had to help her grieve, not in a vague or distant way, but in the real, raw, this happened to someone you love kind of way.
Grief isn’t tidy. It’s not linear. Lucy didn’t cry at first.
She asked questions. Big ones.
“Why did God let this happen?”
“Will mine stop working too?”
I didn’t lie.
I told her what I knew, and I sat with her in what I didn’t.
She wrote letters to her friend. I got in touch with her counselor at school and she was pulled out of class to talk whenever she needed to. I held her at night when the tears came. We let the grief be what it was. Sometimes loud, sometimes silent, sometimes just a tight hug and no words at all.
As a mom, nothing prepares you for watching your child mourn. You’d do anything to take that pain away. But some pains can’t be taken, they can only be carried.
Lucy still talks about her friend.
She remembers the way they laughed, the games they played, the memories they made.
And in her remembering, her friend stays close.
That’s what I’ve come to believe about grief. It’s not something we move on from. It’s something we move forward with.
When you’re part of the CHD community, you know how precious life is. You know not every child gets to grow up. You know the other moms and dads by name. You celebrate their victories and you mourn their losses like your own.
Lucy is here. She’s growing, thriving, fighting like she always has.
But I know she carries a piece of her friend in everything she does.
If you’re walking through this with your child, if you’re helping them grieve a loss that feels too big for their age, know that you’re not alone. There’s no script for this.
We don’t protect our kids from grief by pretending death doesn’t happen.
We protect them by showing them how to feel it, how to honor it, and how to let love live on in its wake.
