Day of the Dead: Remembering the Dead, and Making Space for the Living

I've become a little obsessed with the Day of the Dead. I even have Day of the Dead cat wallpaper in my loo! Alongside these loo-dwelling cats and skeletons, though, is something I've often pondered: how do we respectfully remember and honour those who have died, those who are grieving, and those whose experiences of loss are complicated?

I can pinpoint a particular time when my curiosity about death and remembrance was piqued, although it undoubtedly started before then. At secondary school, we studied Danse Macabre in music lessons. I loved this eerie piece, inspired by the medieval Dance of Death, in which Death summons skeletons to dance through the night.

The idea that death belongs to life, rather than being something we must always avoid or deny, has stayed with me.

A celebration of the dead

Día de los Muertos, or Day of the Dead, is celebrated in Mexico around 1 and 2 November. It has some parallels with Samhain, the ancient Gaelic festival marking the transition into winter, traditionally associated with the idea of the boundary between the living and the dead becoming more permeable. Both traditions engage with death and remembrance, but they have distinct cultural and historical roots. Día de los Muertos has Indigenous Mexican roots and incorporates Catholic influences.

Families may create altars, known as ofrendas, decorated with photographs, candles, flowers and favourite foods. Cemetery visits, shared memories and offerings honour those who have died. In some traditions, this is understood as a time when deceased loved ones return to visit their families.

I imagine I would feel exhilarated, (perhaps that's not quite the right word), or somehow more alive and settled by the experience of seeing the dead honoured so openly. There's something about accepting and embracing the shadow side of life, allowing it to be processed and integrated into the whole, rather than separating what can be spoken about from what feels unimaginable.

The dead remain part of the family story, and sadness can sit alongside colour, creativity, love and humour, rather than being kept separate or treated as shameful.

I'd love to experience this meaningful cultural tradition while respecting the people and communities who keep it alive. I visited Mexico during my gap year, when I was 18, and have always wanted to return. I hope to do so in the next few years. Honouring people I've loved, as well as family members I never knew, feels like a meaningful reason to go.

Perhaps that explains the wallpaper. Or perhaps I just like cats and skeletons. Maybe it's both.

When the dead become a secret

The contrast between remembering the dead openly and growing up with a loss that's difficult to talk about is something very personal to me. Perhaps it's why I'm so invested in finding a way to accept, embrace and celebrate death rather than shy away from it.

I'm what is known in the psychotherapy world as a ‘replacement child’. The term describes someone born after a child in their family has died.

Every ‘replacement child's’ experience is different, but for some, as is the case with me, the earlier loss becomes something the family struggles to discuss. Parents may understandably be trying to protect themselves and one another from further pain, leaving questions unasked and feelings unspoken.

A ‘replacement child’ may sense an untold story or notice that certain questions aren't welcome. They might pick up on sadness, tension or expectations without understanding where these come from, and imagine it is something they have done wrong.

When a death cannot be talked about, it doesn't necessarily disappear from family life. It may simply become harder to understand.

The child who died existed and mattered. Acknowledging their life and death gives their memory a place within the family story. This can help unlock feelings that have been suppressed and make space for everyone to take their rightful place in the family.

Remembering the child who died and allowing the living child to become their own person are not opposing choices. There is room for both.

And this isn't only about ‘replacement children’. Similar difficulties can arise after other family deaths, particularly when people feel unable to talk openly about their loss, or are shamed or silenced for wanting clarity and space to express their own feelings.

When grief feels impossible to talk about

Maybe you've spent years holding everything together, fearing that once you start crying you won't stop, or struggling to find words for feelings that seem contradictory.

You don't have to tell your story before you're ready or find a neat ending, and there's no obligation to grieve in the way somebody else thinks you should.

When you feel able, a small step towards talking may help. That might mean sharing a memory, admitting anger or guilt, acknowledging a complicated relationship, or asking a question you've carried for years.

Grief doesn't always need fixing, sometimes it needs witnessing.

As a therapist, I believe we need somewhere to bring our whole experience without tidying it up for somebody else's comfort. Sadness, anger, relief, confusion and numbness can all be welcomed in, as can loving someone we struggled with, or missing them while recognising that the relationship was difficult.

More than one feeling can be true at once, and in therapy, there's time to explore them at your own pace.

Remembering, without losing ourselves

As a ‘replacement child’, I'm interested in how we can honour those who came before us while allowing ourselves to live our own lives.

I'm embracing the Day of the Dead, and the people I am grieving and honouring, in my own small way this year, with a Day of the Dead jigsaw puzzle and a brilliant Day of the Dead cat figure, a present from a friend. I've named the cat Egan, though I have absolutely no idea why.

I hope to return to Mexico to experience Día de los Muertos for myself. But I can start closer to home: by keeping my Day of the Dead cats wallpaper, piecing together my jigsaw, and staying curious about how other cultures remember their dead. And, of course, by making space for difficult conversations in my work and my own life.

The dead deserve to be remembered. The living deserve to be free to live. We shouldn't have to sacrifice one for the other.

If something in this blog resonates with you and you'd like to explore your own experience of grief, family silence or being a ‘replacement child’, you're welcome to get in touch about working with me.