Christine Dernederlanden
As summer arrives, we often watch the flowers bloom, and the trees begin to grow new life. It gives us time to pause and reflect on what new life may be growing within us—and also what life has left us.
When grief is present, it can feel impossible to enjoy the beauty of a new beginning. Everything feels changed forever. You may wonder: Will I ever smile again? Will I ever stop and enjoy the smell of a single flower?
But what if I told you that you could grieve and still smell the flowers? That healing can exist in the same space as sorrow.
As we move through grief, we often reach a stage of realization. This is the moment when it becomes clear that our loved one is not coming back. The friends we once passed in the school hallways are no longer there. The school year ends, and for some, summer will carry the loneliness of not having that friend to ride bikes with, go to the park with, or simply laugh beside.
Yet even within grief, we can create spaces of remembrance and healing.
This summer, perhaps that space could become a grief garden — a place that honours both loss and new life.
In my journeys, I have seen many grief gardens. Some would astonish you with the love, care, and work that went into them. I have often worked with schools to create spaces that honour classmates who have died. These gardens give students a place to sit, create, remember, and feel close to the friends they miss.
Over time, these spaces become more than gardens. They become places of reflection, healing, conversation, and connection. A place where grief feels seen.
But many people ask me: How do you begin a grief garden? Is it like planting a normal garden?
In some ways, yes — but a grief garden grows from the heart first.
A grief garden does not need to be large or expensive. It does not need to look perfect or belong in a magazine. Some of the most meaningful grief gardens I have ever seen were small corners of a backyard, a single bench under a tree, or a few flowers planted beside a school fence. What mattered most was not how beautiful the space looked to others, but how meaningful it felt to the people grieving there.
A grief garden can begin with a single flower, a painted rock, a memory stone, a bench, a wind chime, or even a small tree planted in honour of someone loved. Some people choose flowers connected to memories — perhaps sunflowers because someone loved summer, roses because they remind them of their grandmother, or forget-me-nots because they never want their loved one forgotten.
Others choose colours carefully. The stages of grief are often connected to emotions, and emotions can be represented through colour. Purple may symbolize sorrow and deep reflection. Yellow may symbolize hope or light returning after darkness. Green often represents growth and healing. Blue can represent peace, calmness, and understanding. White may symbolize remembrance, innocence, or spiritual connection.
In my work, I often speak about the seven living stages of grief: disbelief, grasping, melancholy, realization, clarity, compassion, and resilience. Much like a garden, these stages do not always happen in perfect order. Sometimes we move forward, then suddenly revisit another stage again.
Disbelief can feel like frozen ground after winter. Nothing feels real. The mind struggles to accept what has happened.
Grasping often follows. We search for answers, signs, meaning, or ways to hold on to the person we lost. We replay memories and conversations, wishing we could change the ending.
Then comes melancholy — a deep sadness and reflection that can quietly settle into our lives. This stage often feels heavy, like dark clouds sitting over us for longer than we expected.
Eventually, many people move into realization. This is when grief begins to feel more permanent. We understand the loss is real, and life has changed forever. This can be one of the loneliest stages because the shock fades and reality settles in.
Yet even here, healing can slowly begin.
As we continue moving through grief, clarity begins to emerge. We start understanding our emotions differently. We begin seeing that grief is not something to “fix,” but something to move through.
Compassion often follows — not only for others, but for ourselves. We begin understanding that everyone carries unseen grief and hidden stories. Our pain can soften us, connect us, and deepen the way we care for others.
Finally, resilience begins to grow. Resilience does not mean forgetting or no longer grieving. It means learning how to carry grief while still allowing life, love, and hope to exist beside it.
A grief garden can beautifully reflect these stages.
The soil itself reminds us that growth often begins in darkness. Seeds must first be buried before they bloom. In many ways, grief asks the same of us. We are changed beneath the surface before healing becomes visible.
When creating a grief garden, there is no right or wrong way. Grief itself does not follow perfect rules, and neither should healing.
The most important part of a grief garden is intention.
Ask yourself:
What feeling do I want this space to bring?
What reminds me of the person I love?
What symbols make me feel connected to them?
What would bring comfort when grief feels heavy?
What colours, flowers, or sounds make me feel safe?
A grief garden should invite people to pause. To breathe. To remember.
Some people choose to include benches or chairs so visitors can sit quietly. Others add stepping stones with written messages, names, or dates. I have seen students paint rocks with memories of classmates and place them around flowers. I have seen families hang wind chimes so that every gentle breeze feels like a whisper from someone they miss.
Bird feeders, butterflies, trees, lanterns, fountains, and memory plaques are all common additions. Some people place journals in waterproof boxes so visitors can write letters to loved ones who have died. Others leave art supplies nearby because grief is not always spoken — sometimes it is drawn, painted, or simply felt in silence.
For schools, grief gardens can become powerful community projects. Students may gather together to plant flowers, paint stones, create memorial artwork, or write messages of remembrance. During these moments, they begin learning something our world often struggles to teach: grief does not have to be hidden.
So often people tell children to “stay strong,” “move on,” or “don’t cry.” Yet grief that is ignored does not disappear. It simply becomes buried inside the body.
A grief garden gives permission for emotions to exist.
It tells students, families, and communities:
You are allowed to miss someone.
You are allowed to remember.
You are allowed to feel sadness and still find beauty again.
I believe this is one of the reasons nature itself can feel healing during grief. Trees lose their leaves every year, yet they bloom again. Flowers wilt, but new ones return in another season. Gardens teach us that endings and beginnings can exist together.
Grief changes us forever, but it does not mean life can never grow again.
One thing I often encourage people to remember is that a grief garden should continue to evolve. Just as grief changes over time, the garden may also change. One year you may plant bright flowers because you need hope. Another year you may add a quiet sitting area because you need reflection. Children may return years later and add painted stones, messages, or new plants as they continue growing through their own healing journey.
In many ways, the garden becomes a living memory.
This article is shared for informational purposes and is not intended to replace professional medical or psychological support or care. If at any point you feel overwhelmed or need immediate support, please consider reaching out to a local crisis line or emergency service. You are not alone—support is here for you. Please consider reaching out to Mental Health/Community Care at 250-242-2642.
We will be gathering online next week to hold space for this conversation—to talk openly about disbelief and the many ways grief shows up.
I will be there to answer your questions and to support open conversation around your grief journey. If you would like to submit questions in advance, please don’t hesitate to reach out at info@robertspress.ca. If you need additional grief resources, support is available.
About the Author
Christine Dernederlanden, C.B.T., C.T.S.S., IAC Master Practitioner and Reiki Master, is a grief and trauma expert, author, and speaker. She is the author of numerous books, including Where is Robert?, H.U.G.S., Thank You, Dying to Live, and Grief Uprooted: The Seven Stages of Grief for the Living, and hosts the Grief Uprooted podcast. Learn more at www.griefuprooted.com www.robertspress.ca
