There’s no wrong way to grieve

No more holding it in. Just let it out, kid.

Trigger warning: This letter contains themes of grief, loss & death of a loved one. Please read with care, and honour your limits. Your safety matters more than the story.

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Written by Billie Moon | Illustrated by atom

Listen, I didn’t know how to grieve either.

The first time I lost someone, they told me to be strong. To keep it together. To not cry at the funeral. I was “just a kid,” they said. As if that made the ache in my chest any smaller.

Nobody explained what death meant. They just whispered behind closed doors and said, “You’re too young to understand”. But I did understand. I felt the silence in the room. I felt the space that person used to fill.

So I held it in. Swallowed it down. Tried to carry on like nothing had happened.

But grief doesn’t disappear just because no one talks about it. It waits. It builds. And one day, it finds you again. In a song, a smell, or a memory you thought you’d buried.

Maybe you didn’t get a goodbye. Maybe you were told to be brave. To stop crying. To “move on already”. Maybe the person you lost was the only one who made you feel safe, and now they’re gone and no one really gets what that did to you. Or maybe you lost them before they were gone. Perhaps there was distance or too much left unsaid. Then they died. And now you’re left with a grief soaked in guilt and silence.

But here’s the thing:
We don’t all grieve the same.

Sometimes it looks like tears. Sometimes it looks like nothing at all. We might feel fine for months, then fall apart over something small, stupid and real. We might miss what we had. Or what we never got the chance to have. We might mourn the version of them we remember, and the version of us that only existed when they were around.

And all of it counts.

So take your time, kid.
Say their name. Miss them however you need to.
Let your grief be messy. Let it be late.
Let it be whatever the hell it needs to be.

You’re not broken. You’re grieving.
And you get to do that in your own damn way.

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Contributors

Gabriela Trofin-Tafir (40, Hungary)
Writer, economist, mother of three
Gabriela lost her grandmother to cancer but was never told the truth or allowed to say goodbye. “I kept praying, believing my family would be whole”, she said. “But when grief came, I wasn’t allowed in”. Now she’s learning that grief doesn’t need permission to be felt, and neither do we.

Lavender Loveway (40, USA)
Author, guide, deep seeker
Lavender was made to cut off her grandparents—the only safe adults in her violent home—before they passed. “They made me feel safe”, she shared. “And then I lost them”. Her grief is now a quiet devotion: proof that love outlives the lies we were taught.

Janki Patel (32, India)
Seeker, writer, artist
When Janki’s father died, she didn’t know how to grieve. “I locked it all away”, she said. “Years later, I found it in a satsang class, and it all came out”. Now she teaches that grief isn’t linear. It lives in the body, and waits to be honoured.

Richard (21, Nigeria)
Poet, writer
Richard lost a man he loved like a father. He wrote a poem about a eulogy, a vow, and a memory traced in grief. “To love is a burden”, he wrote, “but one that we choose”. His words remind us that legacy lives on in those who remain.

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For the kid still listening

• What part of your grief have you kept hidden because no one made space for it?

• Who did you lose and what do you still wish you could say to them?

• Were you taught that grief had to look a certain way? Who taught you that, and were they right?

• What version of yourself disappeared when they did?

• What would it look like to let yourself feel the grief now, without guilt?

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How to submit your story

Want to get featured in our posts and eventually in our printed books?

We’re gathering true stories to turn into weekly illustrated letters and a future print anthology. Every 15 letters will become an 80-page illustrated book you can hold, gift, or return to whenever you need to feel less alone. If your story is selected, you’ll be tagged as a co-author in every post and credited in the final book.

It’s simple! No fancy writing skills needed. Just head over to our submission form, and answer three questions:

1. In 10 words, what do you wish someone told you when you were younger?

2. What happened that made you realise that?

3. What do you hope someone else feels when they read this?

We’ll gather a few responses around each theme and shape them into one illustrated message, crediting each voice and including them in the final print volume. We’ll also ask for a few personal details—like your age, location, or role—not to label you, but to give readers context. To gently prove that this is universal. No matter where we’re from, how old we are, or what we do, we all carry a child who needed more.

You’re welcome to submit more than once if different themes speak to you. We’d love to hear them all. However, we only feature each emotional theme once. If a topic’s already been covered, we may reach out to suggest a different prompt.

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Let’s build something that matters together.

If this letter hit home, drop us a comment, give it a restack, or share it to someone who needs it. Check out the rest of the Listen Up, Kid series while you wait for the next letter.

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And if you’d like to help keep the lights on while I raise my daughter, two cats, and pour my heart into stories like this, consider becoming a paid subscriber, get my book, or simply a virtual hug filled with kindness. It makes a real difference.