The Gift of Nothing

It is surprisingly difficult for adults to do nothing. We are wired to fix, to soothe, to fill silence with helpful words or helpful plans. But sometimes—especially for grieving children—doing nothing is exactly what they need most.

Adults who lost a parent when they were young often tell me the same thing, almost word for word: the best days of their childhood were the days when no one reminded them of what they’d lost. Not because they didn’t care about the parent who died, and not because the grief vanished, but because for a few hours they were allowed to simply be kids.

No reminders of their dead parent.

No forced conversations about how they were “really doing.”

No pitying looks.

No well-meaning favors.

No sudden gifts meant to cheer them up.

No adults hovering anxiously, waiting for a meltdown or a profound confession.

Just a normal day. A normal game. A normal argument with a sibling. A normal laugh at something silly. A normal routine where the weight of grief wasn’t the first thing anyone commented on.

Children don’t grieve the way adults do. They move in and out of their pain like waves: one moment devastated, the next moment eager to play. That shift can unsettle adults, who feel compelled to make grief the center of every interaction. But for a child, the ability to step away from sorrow isn’t avoidance—it’s survival. It’s how their brain allows them to process something far too big all at once.

What they often crave is not a special intervention, but a break from being “the kid who lost a parent.” They want the dignity of not being defined by their tragedy. They want room to return to the business of childhood: building forts, riding bikes, trading snacks, laughing at nonsense, feeling capable, feeling included, feeling normal for a little while.

And this is where doing nothing becomes a powerful gift.

Not nothing in the sense of neglect—children absolutely need presence, stability, and support. But “nothing” in the sense of not intruding on their moments of ordinary life with adult anxiety, adult questions, and adult expectations about how grief should look.

Sometimes the most compassionate thing an adult can do is hold space quietly. Sit nearby. Let the child be absorbed in their play, their friends, or their imagination. Be available, but not intrusive. Let them choose when to open the door to their grief and when to close it again.

Children remember that. Decades later, they don’t recall the perfectly worded condolences or the carefully scheduled check-ins. They remember the rare, precious moments when the adults around them allowed them to be whole, not broken. When they weren’t treated as fragile glass. When they were not required to perform their sadness for anyone. When normalcy was not only permitted but protected.

The happiest days, they say, were the days when the world let them be kids.

And for adults—parents, relatives, teachers, friends—the challenge is to trust that “just being a kid” is not a distraction from healing. It is healing. It is one of the few places where a grieving child finds rest.

Doing nothing isn’t easy. But sometimes, for a child in pain, it’s the most generous thing we can do.