I’ll Be Upstairs If You Need Me

A child’s casual comment can also be a profound reminder about presence, grief, and what lives on.

The other night, my son and I were curled up on our big, comfy couch watching a new movie. Midway through, he decided he’d rather head upstairs to play. As he reached the base of the stairs, he turned back and said, “I’ll be upstairs if you need me, Mom.”

I responded with a casual, “Okay, buddy,” and then added, “If you see my phone, could you bring it down for me?”

“Yep. I will,” he said, and trotted off.

It was one of those throwaway exchanges you don’t think twice about—until later, when it suddenly hits you in the gut. Because those words—I’ll be upstairs if you need me—have a weight I can’t shake lately.

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We’re walking through a season of heavy goodbyes. In two short months, we lost Great Grandpa Jerry and then had to say goodbye to Grandpa Brian. 

These aren’t the kids' first exposures to loss—Bennett understood what was happening when our beloved dog, Bear Bear, passed away, and two of our remaining huskies, now both 13, are gradually moving slower, resting longer, and needing gentler love.

At just six years old, he’s actually been asked to understand a lot about death, dying, and grief.

His first experience with it outside of our family came in his classroom when a classmate unexpectedly lost their father. The boy blurted it out in class, as kids often do with news they haven’t fully processed, and his teachers gently addressed it, knowing many students had never encountered death before.

That night, Bennett came home full of questions. What does it mean to die? What happens to our bodies? Where do we go? 

The next morning at drop-off, I asked his teacher if there was anything we could do for the family. She said she'd keep me posted, and then told me something I’ll never forget.

She said that while most of the children had taken the news and moved along with their day, she saw Bennett processing it. Like, really processing it. 

He was clearly working hard to understand it—to sit with what it meant for his friend and their family. At an age where empathy is still developing, he was trying to grasp the weight of it all.

Later at recess, he approached his teacher and said, “I drew a picture of J and his dad because I thought it would make him feel better.” 

He had sketched them together using chalk on the blacktop. 

Before the whistle blew, he asked if he could show it to his friend. And the two boys stood together over that picture—silent, huddled, connected in some unspoken way.

They weren’t exceptionally close friends. They barely knew each other, really. But in that moment, one small boy saw another’s pain and chose to respond with care. 

That’s presence. 

That’s humanity. 

That’s important. 

So when Bennett said, “I’ll be upstairs if you need me,” it stopped me. Because I keep thinking about all the people who are now “upstairs.” The ones we love who aren’t physically here but still manage to show up. The ones whose presence we still feel.

–

I once asked a loved one if they believed in heaven. 

They said no—not in the traditional sense. 

But they did believe that the parts of us we’ve shared, taught, and passed on remain alive in the people we’ve loved–that what we give while we’re here gets carried forward. And in that way, they said, no one’s ever really gone.

Whether or not you believe in heaven, the metaphor still holds: they’re upstairs if we need them.

–

This past 4th of July weekend, my husband and I, along with his sister and her fiancé, spent long, aching hours at my father-in-law’s bedside—holding his hand, deciphering final words, adjusting pillows, applying cool cloths, and asking the nurse for more comfort meds when the time was due. He was surrounded by love. We missed the time with our kids, but we were exactly where we needed to be. Luckily, we have the kind of village that stepped up without pause. (Thank you.) 🙌

When we came home to our kids and were finally together again as a family of four, the bond felt sacred. Our son asked more questions.

“Is Grandpa Brian going to pass away in the hospital?”

 “Yeah, buddy. I think he is.”

 “Is he going to pass away today?”

“We don’t really know for sure, bud.” 

“What does it look like when you fade away?”

And so the Q & A continued.

He understood–-he really did. He knows what it’s like to be sick and want the people you love close by. And he knows what it feels like to offer that same kind of love to others.

–

And here’s something else I’m learning in this season: even in the moments when we feel like we may not be providing an exceptional amount of value—when we feel like a burden for needing help or care—we still matter. Because those moments, too, are teachable. They are sacred opportunities for others to show up, to learn how to care, to practice presence, to deepen empathy.

Even in decline, even in silence, even in dependence—we are still offering something deeply human to those around us. We are still giving. Still shaping. Still here.

So, maybe that’s what presence means. Not just showing up for the good parts, but being willing to walk beside someone through the hard ones, too. Sometimes quietly. Sometimes with a chalk drawing. Sometimes with a simple promise:

“I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”

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Dive deeper with the "5M" MoveMaker Method - exploring EQ from all angles:

Mini Takeaway: 

Presence doesn’t have to be loud. Sometimes it looks like a chalk drawing, a hand squeeze, or just sitting quietly beside someone who hurts. Presence = showing up, even when you don’t have the “right” words.

Music Reco:

“See You Again” by Charlie Puth & Wiz Khalifa.

A song about love, loss, and the hope of reunion — steady enough to hold your heart, soft enough to let the tears flow.

Mindful Snack:

Next time you want to care for someone (or yourself), try this combo:

🍎 Apple slices

🥄 Almond butter

✨ Sprinkle of cinnamon

It's comfort without the crash.

Movement Exercise:

Feeling scattered? Try this 30-second presence reset:

1️⃣ Feet flat on the floor.

2️⃣ Inhale for 4 counts.

3️⃣ Exhale for 6 counts.

4️⃣ Whisper: “I’m still here.”

Repeat x3. Simple. Grounding. Human.

Mind-Bender:

What if presence isn’t about what you give—but about what you allow others to give you? 🤯

Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is let people show up for us.

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Snack-sized sentiments, full-sized feelings. Follow @MoveMakerMedia for more everyday chaos and emotional clarity.