Advice for a Dying Parent to Give Their Child

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It’s an honor to get DMs from people who are grieving all over the world, but this one hit me in a completely different way. It made me sink down and sit in it for a while. What would I tell my mom and dad to tell me, if I could go back in time to my teenage self? What do I wish they had assured me? 

The DM (edited for anonymity and clarity):

Hi Rebecca,

I hope you don’t mind me reaching out. I currently have terminal cancer with a very poor prognosis. I have a 10 year old and a 13 year old. As a mom, my heart breaks for them. I worry so much for them, as I want them to be able to still be kids and have fun and be happy. I fear with me gone they won’t have that. I’m writing to see if you have any advice for me to give to them, as I know you unfortunately had to go through this. Thank you for your time and help. I truly appreciate it. 

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Here are eight pieces of advice I wish my mom could have given me before she died. 

You don’t have to cry all the time. 

You are allowed– encouraged, actually!-- to live your life and be a kid. Have fun with your friends. You get to enjoy life when you feel like it, knowing that some days and some moments within days will be really, really hard. Other people might be surprised by how well you seem to be doing, because they have stereotypical views of what grief is supposed to look like. You do you!

You don’t have to be happy all the time. 

Seeming good and actually feeling good are two different things– and while you won’t always feel good, you don’t have to pretend to feel good for other people all the time. It doesn’t make you better or stronger, and it doesn’t mean you’re doing a better job at this whole dead parent thing. 

Everyone will handle a person’s death differently.

Your brother’s grief will look different from yours, and neither of you is handling my death “better” than the other. Same with everyone else in our family, and our friends. Everyone’s grief will look different. 

Just because I’m gone physically doesn’t mean our relationship has to end.

You will get to know me better, in some ways, when I’m gone and as you get older. You will hear more stories about me, you might even read my letters or emails, see more photos of me, and it’ll help you understand me. As you grow up, you’ll be able to better see me as a real person instead of just your parent. You can still talk to me, think of me, and let me bear witness to your life as you keep moving forward as much as you want. 

People are going to say weird shit to you about grief. 

And just let them. Let them be weird. It’s about them, not you. People might tell you I’m always watching you, that I’m in a better place, because those ideas comfort them. Maybe they’re comforting to you, or maybe they’re weird. People are going to give you advice and tell you stories about their grief and what they did to handle it. You can just let people talk, or, if you need to, you can remove yourself from awkward conversations.

People are going to say weird shit to you about me. 

Listen: I’m not perfect. You’re going to learn things about me you don’t understand, or you might not like, over time. People are going to tell you that I was a saint, that I did something awful, and everything else in between. You get to let the weird things roll off you, but you also get to learn things about me that maybe you didn’t want to know. People are weird. I’m weird. So are you. But there’s something particularly in the years after death that survivors can feel incredibly free to let their weirdness out at moments that really make no sense. 


You will miss me in different ways at different times in your life. 

Some days, like big milestones in your life, are going to feel bittersweet – in tension between the accomplishment and my absence. I want you to think about me in those moments, imagine what I would say, and let me be in the space with you. It’s ok to feel sad I’m not there, AND proud of yourself or excited for what’s happening. Stay present in the moment in front of you, and give yourself the time and space before, after, or in brief pauses, to let me in too. But don’t try to pretend you’re not missing me, it won’t work.