On Loss, Shame, and Communication

Between sixth and seventh grade, I was in a fight with my best friend. I still remember our last cold conversation over the phone:"Please bring the Super Mario tape from the TV game to the camp."We were about to go on a school trip. She replied, coldly and a bit surprised—at least that’s how I interpret it now.

Before the trip, my teacher called:"Did you know Andreea V. died?"I burst into tears.My first loss.At 13, I tried to make sense of it on my own.

Children start asking about death even much earlier. Psychiatrist Irvin Yalom, in his book Existential Psychotherapy, wrote that when kids can’t get answers from trustworthy sources (parents, close adults), they will imagine their own. And those imagined explanations are often far more frightening or unhealthy than reality. (The same applies to sex education—but that’s another topic.)

One vivid memory I have is sitting at the table with my father. He was eating lunch, and I was crying. He looked at me with compassion and asked why I was crying. I laid my head down on my arms. He sighed, understandingly.That was the end of our interaction.

Recently, I found some “oracole” (notebooks we passed around in school, filled with silly questions). Among all the innocent prompts, one stood out:"If you could turn back time, what would you change?"Out of 23 answers, 20 said something like: "I wish I could save Andreea." / "I wish Andreea was still alive."The 3 other responses were from kids in the neighborhood who weren’t in our class.

We were all deeply shaken by what had happened to her.Most of us were trapped in our first encounter with a situation where no adult—no mom or dad—could fix it for us.Because the harsh reality was that no one could bring Andreea back.

Today, I realize I still carry guilt from that relationship. She was my best friend. We had a fight... and then she died.Did my unconscious child-self conclude it was my fault?

Until today—over 20 years later—I had never said these things out loud.It was a fight between kids. What happened to her, to her family, was a tragedy.Even now, it brings tears to my eyes. And despite all the years in personal therapy, I never talked about it.

Guilt always comes with shame.And shame comes with silence—keeping us from speaking about what causes it.The pain was buried so deeply that even two different therapists I worked with long-term never touched it.

Guilt, shame, and anxiety aren’t technically emotions. They’re what psychologist Silvan Tomkins called “binding affects”.Healthy emotions enrich our thinking and motivate action. For example, anger lets us know we dislike a situation and pushes us to change it. But binding affects do the opposite: they freeze us.They reinforce our defenses instead of opening the door to healing.

When Andreea died, I shut down. I didn’t know how to ask for comfort or answers. I didn’t talk about it—not even later, as an adult.

Psychologist B. Lewis drew an elegant distinction between the moral/ethical dimensions of guilt and shame:Shame says “How could I do this?”Guilt says “How could I do that?”

And I felt both: I fought with her. Then she died.

These insights came up during a session with a client discussing the deaths of his grandparents when he was 7 or 9. In his home, no one talked about it. The religious and traditional rituals were carried out as expected, but he stood on the sidelines—confused and without explanations.And so, the Child made his own meaning.Because when a child can't talk about something, they'll imagine the rest.

Yes, I experienced Andreea’s death entirely in my head.I made my own conclusions.I lived with unexplained guilt for over 20 years—because the adults around me didn’t know how to support me in the face of a real, irreversible loss at age 13.

Rationally, I knew Andreea didn’t die because of our fight.But guilt and shame made my inner Child believe otherwise.

Today, I see how much we (my husband Ionuț and I) have changed from the messages we received in our own childhoods.We teach Aida that she has the right to set boundaries—not just with other kids, but with us too.We help her understand that when a parent yells at their child in the park, that’s not OK.We tell her it’s fine to scream and cry with us nearby—and that when she calms down, she can hug us.Or not, if she doesn’t want to.

And even though I hope her losses will be few and far away in time, I know we’ll be there for her through any grieving process.

Back then, I promised myself that if I ever had a daughter, her name would be Andreea, in memory of my friend.

Today, Aida-Andreea is 2 years, 6 months, and 3 weeks old.