Tiny Hands, Big Lessons on Loss

Posted Friday at 02:00 PM5 days

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Life has a funny way of lining things up. For me, the universe brought extreme joy and deep sorrow almost at the same time. My baby boy, my son, came into the world, full of life and promise. He was a week old, still so new, when the news came from India: my dad, his grandpa, had passed away. I was in the U.S., far away from home, dealing with both the tiredness of a new mom and the quiet ache of sadness. My world felt mixed up with new beginnings and big endings, all at once.

They were alive together for exactly 7 days. The last photo my dad saw, sent across continents, was of his new grandson’s first tiny triumph — his first poop. My dad was so happy, thrilled to be a grandpa again. All this joy and sorrow made me feel a bit strange. As I managed being a new mom and being sad from afar, I wondered: How do I talk about this?

How do I talk about death to a child who literally just arrived? The conventional wisdom often whispers, “Shield them. Protect their innocence. Use euphemisms.” But something in me, perhaps the raw honesty demanded by new parenthood, decided against it. I chose to be open about death, even with my little one, not with grand metaphors, but through shared reality.

It was a quiet gamble. And it was through his unfiltered lens and our evolving conversations that I began to learn how to deal with loss in ways I never anticipated. My son, the tiniest, most unintentional grief counselor, became my guide.

His insights were woven in every day interactions, his questions, and his simple way of being. We never spoke of “Grandpa in the sky” or “watching over us”, yet I found comfort in the fact that my son stared at a wall in our home laughing and making faces as if my dad was standing there having conversations with him. I know that is delusional, but I took temporary comfort in the thought.

I would show him photos and share stories of things that happened, things Grandpa did. “See his laugh?” I’d say. “You have the same laugh.” There’s a particular glint in his eyes, a mischievous glint in his eye, that mirrors his grandfather’s exactly when they’re plotting something. And I always tell him, “If Grandpa were here, he would react just like this.”

He’d look for photos of his Grandpa and with a serene understanding, nothing too complicated, just accepted the absence and absorbed this connection through stories and shared traits. He taught me that remembering isn’t just about sadness, its about continuing the relationship in a different form.

One day, my son and I were flipping through my wedding album. It was photo after photo of all smiles and celebrations, and one particular image of my favorite aunt smiling, her face emanating pure joy that immediately caught my son’s attention. Ironically, this was the aunt who was the real reason for our marriage. She, our playful matchmaker, had found and brought us together.

My son pointed and asked, “Who is she?” I took a deep breath. “That’s my aunty,” I said softly, “she isn’t with us anymore.” I went ahead to share how she brought mom and dad together.

He paused for a moment, his tiny finger tracing her beautiful smiling face. He looked at me with complete certainty, “She got you and Dad together… so she made way for me coming into this world as well?”

His words, simple and profound, were a gentle wave of truth that washed over my own grief. I had spent years thinking about loss as an absence, as a space that needed to be filled. But he, in his child’s wisdom, saw it as a purpose fulfilled. It wasn’t that she got us together, but she paved a path for him to come into being too.

This perspective shift has been the greatest gift. I no longer feel the need to carry grief as a heavy burden, but as a quiet, active part of my life. It has taught me that the opposite of death isn’t just life; it’s connection. And in that, there is always hope.

~Ashmita, learning to navigate loss with tiny hands and an open heart.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.