What a Child’s Drawing Can Teach Us About Grief

When I was seven years old, my pet turtle Shelly died.

This is the picture I drew afterward.

At the top, in careful but uneven pencil strokes, I wrote: “Shelly died today. It was sad. She was nice as a pet.” There are hearts drawn in a row, a face with tears streaming down, a grave marked “Poor Shelly,” flowers planted carefully around it, and a small figure standing alone, crying. At the bottom is the date: January 29, 1991. A time when I was interested in playing with my Barbies, watching The Little Mermaid, and riding my bike around the cul-de-sac.

At seven, children are in a developmental in-between space. They are beginning to understand that death is permanent, even if they don’t yet grasp all of its implications. They ask more questions. They want specifics. And they rely heavily on concrete ways—drawing, play, repetition, and simple language—to make sense of overwhelming experiences.

This drawing reflects that stage clearly.

The language is honest and direct. “Shelly died today.” There is no euphemism and no attempt to soften reality. Children often do best with clear, age-appropriate language around death. Vague phrases meant to protect them can instead create confusion or fear. What children need most is honesty paired with reassurance that their questions are welcome.

The next sentence is just as straightforward: “It was sad.” There is no explanation or justification. The emotion is named and allowed to exist. At seven, children can identify feelings even if they don’t want—or know how—to analyze them. Grief shows up in short statements, in moments, and then often gives way to play.

What the words don’t carry, the images do.

The hearts show attachment and affection. The grave and flowers show an emerging understanding that someone is gone and deserves care and remembrance. The crying figure shows emotional expression without shame or apology. This is how many children process grief—not through long conversations, but through creative expression that allows feelings to move through the body.

What stands out most to me now is how relational this grief is. “She was nice as a pet.” At seven, grief isn’t abstract. It isn’t about legacy or mortality. It’s about the loss of companionship, routine, and safety. Children grieve who showed up in their daily lives and how that presence made them feel.

This is also why children’s grief is so often misunderstood. Adults may expect sustained sadness or assume children are unaffected if they return to play quickly. But children grieve in waves. They may cry, then laugh. Draw a grave, then ask what’s for dinner. This doesn’t mean they aren’t grieving—it means they are processing in developmentally appropriate ways.

Looking at this drawing now, I see how much was already there. I knew Shelly was gone. I knew it hurt. I knew she mattered. And I found a way to honor her using the tools I had.

Children already know how to grieve. What they need from the adults around them is honesty, patience, and permission—to ask questions, to express feelings, to remember, and to revisit their grief as their understanding grows.

This picture is a reminder that grief doesn’t need to be fixed or rushed. It needs to be witnessed.