I start every workshop on this topic with the silliest question I know. What is ambiguous loss?

Loss without a death. Grief with no end. Something is missing, even though no one has died.

ambiguous loss is mourning what could have been—while life goes on as usual. It’s about the child born with a severe disability. About the parent who is still there, but is no longer the same person because of illness or addiction. About the family that falls apart due to divorce. No funeral. No condolence cards. No societal acknowledgment that something has been lost here.

And yet it is a loss. A great loss.

The figures

Which of these three types of loss is least common in the Netherlands? A child with a severe disability—a parent who is seriously ill or addicted—or divorce?

Most people assume divorce is inevitable. That’s true: every year, about 70,000 children are affected by divorce. But then there are the other statistics:

Adjusted for overlap: approximately 1.5 million children in the Netherlands. The Netherlands has 1.7 million children under the age of 18. When combined with domestic violence, this currently affects approximately 60,000 children.

This isn't just a marginal issue. This is the daily reality of the families you encounter.

That distinction is important. Grief explains nothing and excuses nothing. But it shows the circumstances under which people become unhinged—and why families that seem perfectly normal on the surface sometimes suddenly find themselves in a crisis that no one saw coming.

Ambiguous loss sets off a series of processes that—if they persist long enough and are not adequately addressed—significantly increase the risk of domestic violence. This mechanism operates on two levels.

The individual level

Signs of violence and insecurity; signs of loss and grief

Chronic stress impairs our ability to regulate ourselves: to think before we react, to keep things in perspective, and to see others as human beings rather than as threats.

A loss of control drives compensatory behavior. People who feel for a long time that they have no control over their situation begin to seek that sense of control elsewhere—sometimes in ways that are harmful to others.

Social isolation eliminates the outlet for grief. The loss of a loved one is scarcely recognized by society as a cause for grief. There is no protocol for it, no leave policy, no support system that says, “This is hard; take some time to rest.” Friends drift away. Your social circle shrinks. And with it, the opportunity to unburden your heart disappears as well.

Unresolved grief doesn't just go away. It builds up. It seeks an outlet—and that outlet isn't always constructive.

The system level

Within a family, the loss of a loved one affects relationships. Roles shift. Expectations clash. And almost always, people grieve differently.

On average, men and women grieve in different ways. Women are more likely to seek connection—talking, sharing, repeating. Men are more likely to stay focused and keep moving forward. Neither approach is wrong. But they don’t understand each other’s strategy. The gap is growing. Tension is rising.

Role shifts create friction. When one parent stops working to provide care, the balance of power shifts. When children learn early on that they need to spare their parents, the family hierarchy changes. All these shifts are understandable—but they create tension that has to go somewhere.

Children soak up the atmosphere. They adapt: by trying to please, provoking, or withdrawing. That behavior adds pressure to a system that’s already under pressure.

The Loss Triangle as an Analytical Model

The "Loss Triangle" (based on the work of De Mönnink) provides a structured overview of a family's situation:

The impact doesn't change. But if you know what coping looks like and how much support is available, you have some idea of a family's resilience. And resilience determines whether a family can withstand the impact—or whether it will crumble under it.

The Loss Triangle in Practice

Impact. For over a year now, Leonie has been grieving for a child who is here, but isn’t who she had expected. Every missed milestone is yet another loss. She has given up her job, her income, her independence, and her social life. Sander is grieving too—but differently, and invisibly. He misses the everyday routine of his family, a normal bond with his son, and his wife as she used to be. Lisa has a little brother who’s different from what she expected, and she learned early on: keep your mouth shut; don’t make things harder.

Coping. Leonie seeks a sense of control—understandable, but it takes everything she has. Sander retreats into his work—also understandable, but it widens the gap between them. They grieve differently: Leonie wants to talk and be acknowledged; Sander wants to solve the problem or avoid it altogether. They don’t understand each other’s approach. The tension is mounting, slowly but surely. Lisa tries to please everyone—she keeps a low profile to keep the peace.

Support. His circle of friends is gone. His family doesn’t fully understand the situation. The diagnostic process has been dragging on for 14 months—no suitable place for Finn, no prospects for the future. Childcare is the only professional setting this family visits on a weekly basis. But even that has its limits: Finn is welcome there two days a week. If that stops, the pressure at home will increase even further.

Where is the risk?

This family shows no acute signs of domestic violence. However, the loss triangle reveals a family facing a severe impact, limited and partly dysfunctional coping strategies, and virtually no support. Leonie’s chronic stress and social isolation on the one hand—and Sanders’ functional withdrawal on the other—is precisely the context in which tensions can escalate.

And then there’s the diagnostic process that isn’t moving forward. Every month without clarity is another month of uncertainty. Open wounds like that get infected.

Nora goes to after-school care four days a week—it's been that way ever since the divorce.

What you see

Nora’s behavior has changed: she directs and controls younger children in a rigid manner, and corrects them sternly if they don’t follow her rules. She has little appetite. If you ask her if she wants something to eat, she says, “No. I won’t let myself.” She regularly has minor injuries—bruises, a bump, a red mark, a welt. Accidents. And she’s started wetting the bed again.

Layered Loss of Life

Impact. Nora’s biological father has been gone for three years. She hasn’t come to terms with that loss—it’s only grown deeper. Because now there’s Kevin, who does exactly the things fathers do. Every time, it’s a silent confrontation with what her own father doesn’t do. Her mother’s attention has shifted: Roos and Kevin are completely focused on each other. Nora spends four days a week at after-school care and asks herself a question she’ll never voice aloud: Am I even wanted at home anymore?

Coping. The game of control is the only area she still has a grip on. She can’t control her mother, can’t send Kevin away, can’t bring her father back. But she can certainly direct those younger kids at the after-school program. Eating very little gets her the adults’ undivided attention. Regression—bedwetting—is almost always a sign. The question is always: a sign of what?

Support. She’s been attending after-school care for three years now. That’s her safe haven. But going to after-school care four days a week, while a new family dynamic is taking shape at home, adds to her grief the question of her place in the family.

What this shows

Roos wasn’t a monster. She was a woman who lost something she couldn’t put into words, and who developed a destructive coping strategy as a result. That’s exactly what a ambiguous loss can do when it remains unspoken—unnoticed, without support.

Kevin was caring, friendly, and considerate. The evidence pointed to him. And precisely because that picture made so much sense, no one saw what was happening on the other side.

When you work with children, young people, and families, you’re always looking through a lens. Most professionals are familiar with the “safety lens”: recognizing signs of danger and knowing when to intervene. But experiencing a loss requires a second lens—the “loss lens.”

You need both. Not to choose which one to set up, but to get a complete picture of what's going on.

Three specific things you can do

Looking beyond the incident. A bruise, a change in behavior, a parent who drops out—signs of what? Ask yourself this question before jumping to a conclusion.

Seeing the parent as a person, not just a risk. A simple question— “How are you, actually?” —costs little and opens up a lot. People who are chronically overwhelmed and socially isolated are rarely asked how they’re doing.

Enduring silence. Ask a question. Then keep quiet. For at least 18 seconds. It’s uncomfortable—and that’s exactly the point. People fill in the silence. Give them that space.