'My boys lost their dad before even losing their baby teeth. Here's what I wish people knew about grief.'

This article has been sitting in me for three years, quietly taking shape, waiting for the right moment to spill out.

That moment came recently, when someone I care about said, in the context of something small, "Well, the boys just need to realise that life's not fair." It's not the first time I've heard that said about (and to) them, and I'm sure it won't be the last.

It wasn't meant to hurt. In most families, it wouldn't have. But for my boys, who lost their dad before they'd even lost all their baby teeth, life's unfairness isn't a lesson — it's a reality they already know by heart.

Over the years, I've heard variations of this idea — that if I acknowledge my boys' loss too much, I'm somehow "making them victims." I know most people don't mean harm when they say it. But it misses the point entirely.

Watch: How To Deal With Loss Or Grief Of Love Ones. Post continues below.

Naming a loss is not the same as wallowing in it. Giving children permission to grieve is not the same as teaching them to be defined by it.

At the same time, not speaking about their grief can invite its own quiet concerns — the worry that unspoken pain might one day weigh them down, or that they won't learn how to navigate hard emotions in healthy ways. Some days, it can feel like there's no perfect balance, only doing your best with what you know in that moment.

My boys are not victims. They are strong, funny, kind, and deeply loved. But they are children who have lived through something most adults cannot imagine. They deserve to have that truth honoured, not erased, in the name of "toughening them up."

What truly risks making a child feel like a victim is pretending their reality doesn't exist. When we dismiss, deflect, or minimise, we're not building resilience — we're teaching silence.

In Australia, one in 20 children will lose a parent before turning 18 — a deeply painful reality that, for many, happens before the age of 12. Yet even this number barely scratches the surface of what goes unseen every day. The early years of childhood are not just formative; they are critical.

This is when the brain builds its foundational architecture: emotional regulation, learning, resilience, trust. Adverse experiences during this sensitive time don't just leave scars—they can reshape how a child's brain functions. Trauma alters emotional and stress-processing centres like the amygdala and hippocampus, affecting memory, impulse control, and a child's sense of safety well into adulthood.

That's why empathy isn't optional—it's vital. In those first weeks after my husband, Jase, died, there were extraordinary acts of kindness, support, and generosity towards us. Meals appeared on our doorstep. Friends and neighbours checked in constantly.

People stepped in to cover school runs, keep the boys busy. It was overwhelming in the best possible way — a kind of scaffolding that held us up when we couldn't stand on our own. But when the casseroles dried up, so did much of the compassion and empathy.

The phone calls became fewer. The invitations slowed. And in their place, there were the sidelong glances, the "you've got your hands full" comments, the well-meaning but unhelpful "how are you going to do this, all on your own?" questions.

My boys were five and four. They were acting out, not because they were "naughty" or "wild," but because they were trying to make sense of a loss too big for words. To be fair, even with Jase alive, they were rough-and-tumble kids. They wrestled, they pushed boundaries, they wore out the knees of every pair of pants they owned.

Image: Supplied.

Let's be honest — they are Jason Januszke's sons. That strong DNA was always going to make ours a boisterous household. But I guess I'll always wonder: what came first — the chicken or the egg? Were they full of beans because they were grieving… or simply because they were born with it? Probably a bit of both.

Sometimes the sting didn't come from absence, but from outright cruelty. At a kids' party, I saw my son shove another child and felt the judgment in the air as I gathered my boys to leave. Only later did I learn the backstory: that this child had been teasing him at school for weeks, calling him a loser because his dad had died.

In the car, I turned to them and said, "Daddy is off limits. If anyone says anything about him, you have my full permission to punch them in the face." They were horrified. "We couldn't! We'd get in so much trouble!"

I told them I'd deal with the fallout.

They never took me up on it. They've never thrown a punch (to the face), even when they've had every reason to. And in that, I see their strength — the ability to rise above when it would have been easier not to. When our eldest son, Tom, first started school (six months prior to Jase's passing), he had only one close friend. The parents weren't really my "cup of tea," but Jase always said we should put Tom's needs first.

She'd once told me she'd cried for two days when her son first started school — meanwhile, I was the mum high-fiving the gate and enjoying my first hot coffee in peace. I knew then she wasn't exactly my people, but I tried for Tom's sake.

Months later, I learned those parents had asked the school to quietly separate the boys. They didn't want to "foster" the friendship anymore — believing childhood should be about unicorns, rainbows, Santa Claus and tooth fairies, not about having a friend who'd lost his dad.

That day at school pick-up, after the principal told me, I must have looked how I felt — 8kg lighter, withdrawn, devastated. A friend saw me, put her arm around me, and cried with me. Then she quietly promised she'd always make sure I felt supported and that I'd never have to face those kinds of moments alone again. It was one of those moments that reminded me: in grief, allies matter.

Image: Supplied.

Not every culture responds to grief with awkwardness or avoidance. In some, the instinct is simply to stay close and care, no matter how uncomfortable it feels. On the day Jase died, a friend of mine who came immediately to my side to support me, had contacted our youngest son Jack's Early Learning Centre to coordinate collecting him on my behalf and in my absence that afternoon, so I was able to manage the impossible logistics that no one prepares you for.

Later, the ELC principal told me she had sent the regular staff home, believing they couldn't face the afternoon caring for Jack, after knowing what had happened. Other teachers from the school stepped in. One person refused to leave — an Indian educator who had cared for Jack for two years. She sat on the floor and played with him — and played and played.

The principal told her to go more than once. She simply said, "In my culture, we don't leave the children behind." Weeks later, I was invited to a picnic with families from Jack's ELC — most of them Chinese. My boys, fussy eaters, ignored the beautiful spread.

I went to help Tom ride his bike, gone 15 minutes, and came back to find the picnic blanket surrounded by UberEats bags: KFC, McDonald's, Zambrero. Jack had simply mentioned those were his favourites, and without hesitation, they made it happen. There he was, holding court, chicken nuggets, a cheeseburger with a side of nacho on his plate, surrounded by smiling parents (with his cheeky smile, all knowing that he had pulled off a genius stroke).

It wasn't about the food. It was about seeing him, even for a moment, as more than "the boy whose dad had died." They didn't avoid him or tiptoe around his grief. They met him where he was and found a simple, tangible (some would say expensive) way to say: We care about you.

My boys grieved differently. Tom went inward — he didn't want to talk about it, told me to stop when he caught me crying, and got angry at Jack for speaking openly about it. Jack was the opposite — telling anyone and everyone, from the cashier to the waiter, that his dad had died.

Neither way is more valid than the other — it's simply how they each found their way through.

To those who stepped back or chose judgment over kindness — perhaps it's because you haven't yet been dealt with the kind of pain that changes every layer of who you are. If that's the case, I'm glad. I wouldn't wish it on anyone. But please know this: you don't have to have lived it to hold space for someone who has.

Thanks to those family members and friends who became family, my boys are thriving — though, of course, they still have their moments. Changing schools was a turning point. They became part of something bigger than themselves, wearing their blazers with pride.

Sport has been just as important — an anchor that keeps them busy, connected, and surrounded by strong male role models. With an alpha-male of a father, it's no surprise they gravitate to the oval, the pitch, the court.

Watching them play often brings tears to my eyes — not only because I'm proud of who they're becoming, but because I feel the ache of what they're missing, and what Jase is missing.

On the way home from a football game on the weekend, where Jack had kicked four goals, he asked, "Do you think people can watch football from heaven?" He didn't have to say the words he really meant: I hope my daddy watches me from heaven.

I've never wanted Jase's death to be in vain. From the moment we lost him, I knew I wanted his life to mean something beyond the grief — to be a legacy.

Part of that is practical: urging my friends to get their hearts checked, to put their health first, to make a will, to have the difficult conversations we so often put off. Because I know too well how precious life is, and how quickly it can be gone.

But another part is bigger. Maybe his legacy is also about changing how we, as a culture, meet grief. About making empathy our default, about raising children — grieving or not — in communities where compassion lasts longer than the casseroles. About holding space for pain without turning away.

If Jase's life and loss can inspire both — healthier hearts and a kinder culture — then maybe we can save others from the same heartbreak, and soften the road for those who still have to walk it.

Feature Image: Supplied.