The Sadness Ghost

Processing a child’s sadness and a parent’s fears through the magic of ongoing conversations and a little cartoon ghost.


In the summer of 2011, here in New York City, an eight year old boy was murdered. He got lost walking the few blocks home from day camp. It is a chilling story. Even more so for parents of young children.

When I read about it, my first response was, “I have to get Gus away from the city. This place is not safe. We have to go somewhere SAFE.” Close on the heels of that thought, came the question of how to get Gus to NOT TRUST STRANGERS. My son Gus is six years old. He’s a sweet kid. He talks to people. He’s full of energy. People are attracted to him. What if some guy takes my Gus away? Even as I write this, the fears are palpable. I’m feeling the grief of possible loss. Where is Gus right now? Is he safe at his school? The world is an insane place.

A few days after that, my son looked down at a newspaper laying on the sidewalk. It said, “Missing Brooklyn Boy Found Murdered” and it had a picture of the boy staring up at us. Gus, who can read, asked me what it meant. I haltingly explained that the boy was killed by someone he did not know. I used the most simple language and moved through the explanation quickly and in a very neutral tone. But I did not lie to him. I told him that sometimes, strangers can be dangerous.

In a quiet voice, Gus said, “This is bad.” And we walked on toward the park.

To this day I don’t know if it was the right decision to be honest, standing there, looking down at that newspaper. I felt the weight on the world settle on me and on my six year old son. Its one of those moments when telling simplified stories or outright lies seems like a much better idea. Moreover, as a parent, you suddenly want a simpler world. Law and order. Control. You would happily accept what ever role you are assigned in it. You want to trade chaos and complexity for safety. “Just keep us safe,” you say to yourself.

A few night’s later, Gus’s mother called me. We are divorced. She told me Gus had been crying and that he was sad because of a song on the radio that he had heard at our house. The song was American Pie by Don McClean. You probably know the lyrics:

“So bye-bye, miss american pie.
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’, “this’ll be the day that I die.
This’ll be the day that I die.”

I was surprised, because I had not heard the song in our house for a month or more. It was one of hundreds of songs on my iPod and it was also in rotation on my wife, Saliha’s, favorite radio station. But it had been a while since Gus had heard it.

“Gus has been crying all evening,” Sharron told me. “He doesn’t want to hear American Pie any more.”
I realized that his simple response, “this is bad,” had only been the tip of the iceberg. I told Sharron about the newspaper and the story of the boy who had been killed. She repeated that Gus didn’t want to hear any more “sad songs.”

While Sharron continued to love and care for Gus at her home, I wondered what I would be able to do to help when he came to me.

A day or so later, Gus was then staying with my wife Saliha and I. He told her he was very sad. He said, “I’ve been sad for three days and I don’t want to be sad anymore.” Saliha, who is a couple and family therapist, asked him what was making him sad. He told us he was thinking about death. He asked me about dying and I responded that he was very young and that he would live a long long time. I also said something about how death was natural and that it was part of life but that no one in his family would die for a long long time.

“That’s just what Mama said,” he replied, not at all happy with my answers. He put his hands over his ears, laid on his side and shut his eyes. He cried about Olive, our cat who had died a couple of years before.  I thought to myself, “I shouldn’t have told him about the boy.” I got a chill in my gut, the feeling that I had done something irreversible. That he was too young to hear the truth of what I told him a few days before.

Saliha asked him about his sadness. Gus said he just couldn’t stop feeling sad. He has a little tray full of plastic figures he has been collecting called Toonz. He has about forty of them. He looked at us and said, “What is the point of collecting things if I’m going to die? What will happen to them, when I’m dead?”
The conversation continued and Gus repeated that he didn’t want to be sad anymore and that he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Saliha said, “Gus, close your eyes and picture something for me. I want you to think about an orange. Can you picture it?”

Gus’s said, “Yes.”

Saliha said, “Okay, now I want you to stop thinking about it.”

Gus opened his eyes, and looked at Saliha. He closed his eyes again. “Okay,” Gus said.

“Stop thinking about how the orange peel smells. Stop thinking about how the orange tastes. Don’t think about how the peel looks when you tear part of it off.”

Gus began to raise his voice. “I can’t stop thinking about it because you keep talking about it!” he yelled equal parts exasperated and amused.

“Okay,” said Saliha. “Now think about an apple.”

“Okay,” said Gus.

“Think about its red color,” said Saliha.

“Green,” said Gus. “I like green apples.”

“Okay,” said Saliha, “think about it’s green color. Think about how it tastes. Think about how crunchy and sweet it is.” Gus imagined the apple.

“Now,” said Saliha. “Can you see the orange?”

“No,” said Gus, amused.

“If you want to stop thinking about something, you can’t just tell yourself to stop. You have to think about something else,” she said. “You grow what you decide to think about. So, if you think about sadness, you will grow sadness. If you think about happiness you will grow that. Think of the orange as sadness and the apple as happiness. If you want to stop thinking about the orange you have to think about something else. About the happiness. About the apple.”

Gus took that in.

At some point later, Saliha told me that thinking about an emotion, like sadness, over and over can create a grove or a worn path that the mind can get into the habit of traveling.

At the same time, she had another idea she brought into the conversation. She posed the following question: why is sadness necessarily a bad thing? We can hold sadness just like we hold other emotions. It’s part of life. Sadness can even be good. My sense of her intent was this: that by de-stigmatizing sadness, by welcoming it instead of seeking to avoid it, we reduce its power and help it find its proper place in the greater realm of experiences and feelings.

Gus took the oranges and apples idea and within a few moments, he had reassigned ice cream as our happiness thought. We talked about that would be examples of “ice cream thoughts.” We talked a bit more about choosing what thoughts we might want to grow in order to not feel sad. Bedtime came, I read Gus some books and he went to sleep.

The next morning, Gus woke and called to me that he had had a bad dream. “I dreamed that Mommy went a way for two years,” he told me.

I got him out of his bed and we began our day. We sat at the dining table, which, as usual, was covered in his art supplies. He said Mommy was gone and it made him sad. I asked him if he remembered our talk the night before. I asked him to tell me more about the dream. We talked about sadness and he returned to the subject of his toys and death. He said he didn’t want to collect any more toys. What was the use? (A hell of a good existential question, by the way…)

Then, something magical happened. It’s been a while since that day and I’m sure I’m not constructing it accurately, but I found a page in a journal that I had flipped open that morning and started making notes in as Gus spoke to me. The notes are limited but some things are very clear. In preparation for sharing what he said, let me first explain that Gus and I are both artists. We draw pictures. We often draw them as a way to order our thoughts about the world or to construct stories that help us experience it.

For example, on his first day of kindergarten, (a day of trepidation for me not him), Gus brought me home a drawing of his classroom that showed all the tables and chairs, the kids and the teacher, the bookshelves and the windows. He drew the room as a way of taking it in. By drawing it, he took ownership of it. He became more familiar with it.

As we spoke, I asked him again about sadness. Not death, but sadness. Saliha’s concern that we not try to hide from sadness was on my mind. And then one of us, I don’t know which, said “what if sadness is a cartoon. How would we draw it?”

Gus got his pencils and he drew the Sadness Ghost. This is the drawing he made that morning:

Gus was very specific. He drew the eyes several times. I have a second sheet of paper on which I drew versions of the ghost with different eyes and he said, “No, Daddy, those aren’t right.”

He drew the eyes as they are here. These eyes are blank and ghostly but they are not angry or mean. Gus can draw angry and mean eyes. He draws them all the time on his dragons. These eyes are lost and perhaps worried. But they are also, as Gus described them, “cute.”

In the moment he conceptualized the Sadness Ghost, Gus activated his own solution for processing what he was feeling. In that moment, Gus ceased to be a sad person and become instead, a person who was being visited by sadness. This distinction is crucial in processing powerful, sometimes overwhelming emotions like rage, fear or grief.

Gus and I created our story for the Sadness Ghost. We talked about being “visited by sadness.” We talked about how sadness was not always a bad thing. That we all feel sad sometimes. And now, I’ll quote from my notes.

Gus said, “The Sadness Ghost comes and goes. Its okay for the Sadness Ghost to come. He can come for a little while because he’s cute. He comes to me as a hiding place for him because he’s scared. But later, he has to go when he’s not too scared.”

Gus played the role of himself speaking to the Sadness Ghost. “Okay, now go,” he said gently, gesturing for the ghost to go, indicating that we each have to know when to tell sadness to move on. What is remarkable here is how Gus was able to accept sadness into himself in the form of the Sadness Ghost and then care for it. Gus became the caretaker of his own sadness; he became the safe place where his sadness could come to be comforted. Gus no longer defined himself as sad. He was being visited by sadness. A very different way to frame the experience.

The final comment in the notes is, “we need sadness just like we need happiness.” I suspect that was me trying to tie it all up with a bow.

In the days after that, Gus’s sadness went away. He went back to collecting things with a vengeance. He moved on to his ice cream thoughts. And although, sadness will visit him many times in his life, I hope his capacity to hold it will remain as vital and powerful as it was that morning.

To me, Gus’s solution was a manifestation of our natural human capacity to manage chaos. When impacted by destructive forms of change, we can choose to set our whole singular selves in opposition to it, or we can deploy the capacities in ourselves, the versions of ourselves that can hold the challenge and even welcome it. We can let our most able self step forward in that moment and dance with the challenge. Don’t give chaos one monolithic target. Don’t make it so easy on chaos. Make chaos work for it’s rewards, and in doing so, grow our own capacity to be flexible in life.

Saliha is quick to point out the complex web of conversations that lead up to and away from a story/moment like this. What Gus and I were talking about while drawing pictures years ago reinforced how these pictures help us hold our ideas about the world. A year or more ago, we all started having purposeful discussions what to do when we feel angry. As part of those conversations, we drew charts on the walls and assigned colors to levels of emotion. Gus has had talks with a wide range of people over the years of his life that set the stage for him to view himself as a person who creates things. And so on, and so forth. The Sadness Ghost is not an isolated event, it is the logical extension of a way of being in conversation over time with other human beings. That “web of conversations” is the birthplace of capacity and resiliency. And its a place where emotions can take refuge and find safety.

I believe that in creating the Sadness Ghost, Gus relied on this life long history of conversations to organize his response. He momentarily placed the sad part of himself in that symbolic cartoon placeholder, and in doing so, made it distinct, so he could see it separate and apart. Then he allowed it back in, while other parts of himself, held and comforted that part of himself. That emotion which was visiting him. His Sadness Ghost.

“He comes to me as a hiding place because he’s scared.”

Gus was able to see his sadness separate from the rest of himself, using the drawing of the Sadness Ghost as a symbolic marker for how to do it. By separating it out, and pushing his care giving-self forward, he engulfed the challenging emotion, the emotion did not engulf him. And then he could host his sadness, even offer it comfort, until he was ready to say, “Okay, now go.”


Please consider sharing your thoughts about this article by commenting below.

Emmy® Winning animator Mark Greene is the author and illustrator of Flatmunder, A Children’s Book About Kid’s Fears and the Power of Play.

You can purchase Flatmunder for the iPad via iTunes for $2.99 here:


  1. Mark, this gave me chills and brought me to tears. What a beautiful gift you give in sharing this deep experience and found wisdom! All I can say is “Wow”, and that I love you and your sweet family.

    I wonder if you would consider submitting a version of this to the “Family Matters” segment of the national magazine, “Psychotherapy Networker” (I’m sure Saliha is familiar with it). You have captured so many important things in this blog entry about emotion, healing, resilience, and creativity. I would love to see it available to therapists far and near.

    Thank you.


  2. David Hallaway

    I am the third generation of wanderes. Both my mother and father’s families; countries, states and cities. As a child, I rarely saw death as a process. It was a notice, an internment. It was never anyone I really knew… or loved. If fact there was this twenty year span in which, it seemed, no one died.

    When my wife and I decided to settle down. We moved back to California’s Central Valley. Here, we have four generations of family. We live with birth, death and things in between. All of which are delivered by word of mouth. Events happen in multiples. At one point, my eldest, then six, had been to three funerals in row in three weeks, simply asked me who was dying next week. We decided to let him skip a few.

    In having the luxury of being able to raise our family here, my children have had the benefit of seeing death as a process, both natural and unnatural. Illness, accidents and murders. The Buddhist and Catholic elements of our family are very focused upon the souls of the departed. We visit graves. We pray for our dead.

    In our house it is a familiar topic -especially concerning me. My wife often brags how she will, undoubtedly, outlive me and threatens me with burial in either the Japanese-Buddhist or Mexican-Catholic Cemeteries. I will not elaborate upon the numerous desecrations that she is planning after my internment. And, a while back, my youngest has made it clear that that he would prefer me cremated so that he can take me with him when he moves. As for me? I joined a gym.

    The point of all this is that we are often frozen in the moment of life. We are detached from concepts death and fate. And it isn’t important that we truly believe in ritual as a solution but that it exists as a purpose. The Catholics will tell you that there is no “Kitty Heaven” -which is why I’m leaning towards the Buddhist Cemetery.

  3. Keith Howard

    Great job of listening and helping Gus come to his own solutions. He sounds very preceptive and insightful.

  4. John Huegel

    I have spent alot of money on ” professionals ” for my daughter through her teens and I doubt they could have handled things any better. Great insite and pretty cleaver too.

  5. mrkgreene

    Saliha would be quick to note that we should not loose sight of the complex web of conversations that lead up to and away from a story/moment like this. What Gus and I were talking about while drawing pictures years ago, reinforced how pictures help us hold our ideas about the world. A year or more ago, we all started having purposeful discussions what to do when we feel angry. Gus and all the people in his life have had thousands of other talks over the years about a range of subjects that set the stage for him to view himself as a person who creates things. And so on, and so forth. The Sadness Ghost is not an isolated event, it is the logical extension of a way of being in conversation all the time with children or adults. That “web of conversations” is the birthplace of capacity and resiliency. And its a place where emotions can take refuge and find safety.

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