Why are we afraid to use the word “die”?

Why does the word “die” scare people?

When I wrote “Do You Look at the Sky?”, a good friend and early-years colleague gently asked if I really wanted to include that word — die. I had used it openly and without fear. Their question made me pause. It prompted deep reflection on how we use language around death, especially with children.

After much contemplation, I decided: yes, I’m keeping it in. It sat right with me.

Children need honesty. Euphemisms like passed away, gone to heaven, went to sleep, crossed over, or even put down aren’t clear. They're vague. Children don’t sugarcoat their questions — why should we sugarcoat our answers?

Children are naturally honest. Their world is direct, filled with curiosity and clear-eyed observations. Being truthful about death helps them build a healthier relationship with grief. It equips them to talk about it, ask questions, and begin to understand it — often better than we do as adults.

Society, on the other hand, tends to soften the language. We say things like “they're in a better place,” thinking it comforts the bereaved. But does it really? What’s real is: they have died. That is what happened. And acknowledging that truth can be a first step in healing.

So yes — I kept the word in the story. I didn’t run from the reality. I leaned into it, to help children process death and to support the adults reading with them, giving everyone a shared language grounded in honesty.

This reflection came up again as I wrote another story — one that spoke of plants, animals, and people. I read it aloud to my husband and son. They were shocked by how often I used the word die. “Children will be terrified,” they said.

Children fear what we teach them to fear. If we treat grief like something to hide from, they will, too. If we flinch at the word die, so will they. We model emotional avoidance rather than resilience. That’s what many of us grew up with — and what we unconsciously pass down.

We could learn so much from cultures that allow grief to be visible — that speak of the dead, sit with sorrow, and normalise mourning. Cultures where it's not shameful to cry, not awkward to talk about a loved one who’s gone, not strange to visit a grave and speak out loud.

Because the truth is this: when someone dies, they are not coming back. That’s the reality. And the only word that honestly explains the finality of that moment is die.

Use clear, honest language. Practice being comfortable with the word die. When we do that, we help children understand death in a healthier, more grounded way.

And maybe, just maybe, we help ourselves too.

Little Brown Bird

What a week it has been.

I’ve officially registered for an ABN, chosen a business name, and opened a business bank account. A huge step — and one that feels deeply personal.

But why Little Brown Bird?

It only recently dawned on me…….. it’s always been about the bird. 

In the early days after Coop died, Beth sent me a video – a small, precious moment from Phillip Island. In it, Coop is playfully mocking our love of birdwatching (I know right, who would have thought we’d ever get into bird watching?). With his best David Attenborough impressions, he says “Look at these birds, so rate, only found at Phillip Island”. It makes me smile every time l watch it and l’m so grateful Beth shared it with me. It’s a reminder of his humour, his voice, and his joy.

Not long after that, a bird call started visiting me every morning. A yellow-tail honeyeater — its call sounded like it was saying “get up, get up.” Like a message from beyond. For months, it came, calling me out of bed, reminding me to keep going.

Then came the little brown bird.

Every day it would appear. Sometimes when I opened the curtains at the front of the house, sometimes at the back door, often on the woodshed roof. Other times, if I hadn’t seen it, I’d wonder where it was — and like magic, it would appear. It followed me quietly, gently, hopping along fences, flitting across the garden, unconcerned by the dogs or my presence. Just… there.

That’s when I realised — the bird had always been with me. Watching. Comforting. A companion on this path I never asked to walk.

Little Brown Bird felt like the only name that made sense.

It also connects to Bunjil, the creator in Indigenous culture — a presence I deeply respect, especially through my friend Murrundindi. I’ve been lucky enough to witness Bunjil circling above us more than once — an experience that felt powerful and sacred.

So here I am, starting something new, with the quiet strength of that little brown bird beside me. A small, steady guide. A comfort. A symbol of something greater.

Thank you for being part of this journey with me, little brown bird!🐦 

Affirmation

You think you have something special, but you can never be completely sure. The people closest to you—those you choose to share your work with—will often build you up. They'll say the story is beautiful, moving, wonderful. It’s kind, and it means the world, but sometimes... it’s not quite enough to quiet that little voice of doubt.

This week, something changed.

A dear friend and early childhood teacher offered to read my manuscript aloud to her granddaughter. Hearing my words spoken out loud, just as I wrote them, was something I didn’t realise would move me so deeply. It brought tears to my eyes. I felt something shift—like maybe, just maybe, this story truly has a place in the world.

What made it even more powerful was where we were: sitting together in a library, surrounded by the books of published authors. Shelves lined with beautiful, timeless stories. To hear mine among them, even informally, felt like stepping into a dream I didn’t know I was allowed to have.

It was a quiet, extraordinary moment—and such a gift.

Thank you, Neelika and Alex, for sharing it with me. I’ll carry it forward, always.