My dad died when I was 13 and now I study childhood grief. Here's what I've found

There is an urgent need to break the cultural silence around death so that grieving young people do not feel alone

Approximately every 20 minutes, a child under the age of 18 loses a parent in the UK. At the age of 13, I became a part of this statistic. My dad suffered a traumatic brain injury due to a fall on an icy pavement.

For almost two years, whilst my friends played at the park after school, I visited my unconscious dad in hospital on a ventilator, feeding tube, catheter, and blood collection syringe.

Returning to high school after summer, our teacher asked each of us to share our best moment of the holidays. My mind could only focus on one thing: my dad died. The whole summer was tainted by this heart-aching loss.

No one told me what grief was or how to grieve. I sincerely believed that to erase these overwhelmingly painful emotions and memories, I needed to erase my dad from my memory. Rather than sadness and tears, my grief manifested as anger, numbness, and self-destructive behaviours. This led to me being misunderstood and dismissed, and my pain went unseen.

Every 20 minutes, a child under the age of 18 loses a parent in the UK (Picture: Clive Brunskill) | Getty Images

Anxiety and panic attacks

Grief is a lonely place; it makes people uncomfortable. Why was it my responsibility to make others feel better about my pain? I found myself making excuses to leave the classroom whenever the subject of family came up.

I avoided school on Father’s Day, I was ‘unwell’ on the anniversary of his death, I lied and redirected dad-related conversations to avoid awkward interactions. Only one teacher offered a brief “I'm sorry for your loss. My door is always open.” For my 11-year-old brother just starting high school, misbehaviour in class was met with punishment rather than compassionate support.

At age 19, in university, my unresolved grief led to heightened anxiety and panic attacks. In desperate need of help and facing extensive NHS waiting times, I sought private therapy – a privilege not everyone has access to.

Over a quarter of a million children and young people are on waiting lists for mental health support. Therapy equipped me with the tools to navigate my grief and I developed a strong desire to support other bereaved young people.

Anger and emotional numbness

This led to my master’s dissertation, for which I interviewed parentally bereaved young people in the UK. To my astonishment, every story resonated with me, and I realised that my grief journey was not isolated, it was ‘normal’.

The people I spoke to also expressed their early grief through anger, emotional numbness and shock. They also required a strong need for validation, understanding, space to grieve, and healthy coping mechanisms.

However, not everyone had positive experiences with therapy, and unlike some of them, I was extremely fortunate to not have been burdened with adult responsibilities such as making funeral arrangements, or managing household and financial responsibilities.

In my research, fewer young men were inclined to take part. This highlights a wider, crucial issue: the societal pressures on men to suffer in silence, as expressing emotions or seeking support may be perceived as a sign of weakness.

Male suicide

This mentality is harmful, particularly when more than 75 per cent of suicides are by men and the level is at its highest since 1999. Without their voices, we risk overlooking effective ways to address these bereavement support needs.

Death is the most inevitable and universal human experience, but, as my research highlighted, most young people I interviewed felt that universities and schools provided inadequate support. Research shows that 86 per cent of teachers acknowledge the need to address bereavement in school, yet 90 per cent of teachers feel ill-equipped to support bereaved children.

In 2020, in Scotland, a parent-driven petition called for mandatory bereavement education in schools. As did a government-funded report on childhood bereavement which involved 100 people with lived experience of childhood bereavement, and a 2023 petition by an individual who experienced childhood bereavement, which secured over 11,000 signatures.

Despite these efforts, bereavement education remains non-mandatory. It is an optional part of broader health and wellbeing education, and therefore it is at the school’s discretion whether they teach it, leading to inconsistent approaches to support bereaved children.

Statutory, nationwide bereavement education, supported by adequate training and resources, would ensure that all young people and teachers are confidently equipped to handle the inevitable experiences of grief and loss for themselves and others.

Well-intentioned, but unhelpful

Whilst the young people I interviewed appreciated those who listened, many encountered a lack of acknowledgement and discomfort around their loss, which hindered their grieving process.

Statements like “they are in a better place”, “time heals all wounds”, and those that start with “at least” are well-intentioned, yet terribly unhelpful. What we need is not a friend who tries to fix our grief, but one who listens and sits with us in our pain.

There is an urgent need to break the cultural silence around death to nurture a more understanding and compassionate society so that grieving young people do not feel alone.

My dad died 13 years ago and during this painful healing journey, I have learnt to balance my grief. Much like the young people I spoke with, milestones and celebrations such as graduating, getting a new job and Father’s Day are forever tainted by their absence, but nature fosters a sense of comfort and closeness.

Grief does not shrink over time; instead, life expands around it. You learn to love deeper and pack purpose into living, for grief is the receipt for love we had.

Mathilde Scott has an MSc in global health from the University of Glasgow