One day it’s a pet. Another day it’s the last day of school. Then a friend moves away. A favourite toy breaks. A routine changes. An older sibling leaves home. A grandparent dies.

For children, endings are everywhere. But unlike adults, they don’t always have the words—or the permission—to talk about them.

In many cultures, we try to protect children from difficult emotions. We soften losses with vague phrases: “He’s in a better place,” “You’ll make new friends,” “Don’t cry, it’s not a big deal.” Sometimes we ignore the ending entirely, moving on before they have time to even notice what’s missing.

But avoidance doesn’t protect children. It isolates them. It leaves them confused, ashamed, or overwhelmed by feelings they don’t yet understand.

That’s why one of the most powerful things we can do for children is to teach them about endings. Not through heavy theory or adult logic—but through presence, honesty, and simple emotional literacy.

The first step is to recognize that children notice more than we think. Even very young kids feel the tension when something changes. They sense absence, distance, silence. When we leave those moments unspoken, children fill the gap with fear or self-blame.

That’s where language matters. Not complicated explanations, but truthful, age-appropriate words. Saying “We won’t see Grandma anymore because she died, and that’s something very sad,” is more grounding than saying “She’s sleeping forever.” Saying “You won’t be in the same class as your best friend next year, and it’s okay to miss them,” helps more than pretending it won’t matter.

Naming the ending gives it shape. It gives children permission to feel.

And feeling is not a problem to solve—it’s a skill to build.

When we create space for children to express sadness, confusion, even anger, we’re helping them develop emotional tools that will serve them their entire lives. We’re showing them that grief is not a weakness, but a natural response to love and change.

That space can be verbal—asking questions like “What do you miss most?” or “What’s the hardest part for you?” It can also be creative: drawing pictures, writing letters, making memory boxes, saying goodbye through rituals.

One youth worker shared how a group of 8-year-olds created a “Goodbye Wall” at the end of a camp. They posted notes to friends, activities, even to the bunk bed they’d slept in. It was joyful, silly, emotional. And it helped them let go with awareness.

Because that’s what children need—not just distraction, but closure.

At the same time, it’s important not to overexplain. Children don’t need every philosophical nuance of death or loss. What they need is truth they can hold, repeated reassurance, and your calm presence. They need to know that while some things end, they are still safe.

And sometimes, the best support is simply to sit with them in their sadness without trying to fix it. To say, “I feel sad too,” or “I’m here,” or “Yes, that’s really hard.”

These moments may feel small, but they build emotional muscles.

By learning early that endings are a part of life, children grow up more resilient, more emotionally aware, and more compassionate—toward themselves and others.

They also grow up with a deeper appreciation of presence. When you understand that things end, you hold the moment differently. You listen more. You love more intentionally. You don’t take permanence for granted.

That’s not morbid. It’s maturity.

In One Life Many Endings, we believe that learning to face endings early in life helps young people navigate change with openness and strength. And that starts in childhood—with simple, honest, loving conversations.

Because teaching children about endings isn’t about introducing fear. It’s about building the capacity to stay present, even when things shift. It’s about showing them they’re not alone when things go missing, and helping them trust that they can feel sadness without being broken by it.

If we can do that, we give them something powerful: not just the ability to say goodbye—but the confidence to keep growing, even after.