The BFG’s Lessons on Grief: A Gentle Look at Loss Through the Eyes of a Giant

I used to think grief was something that came all at once—a sharp, sudden wound that left you reeling. But the more I’ve lived, the more I’ve come to see that grief is often a quiet, slow thing. It lingers in the corners of our days, sometimes unnoticed until we find ourselves alone with it. That’s why I keep returning to the story of the BFG, the Big Friendly Giant. His life, as told in Roald Dahl’s beloved book, is full of subtle but powerful reflections on loss, and they’ve helped me make sense of my own experiences with grief.

The Loneliness of Being Different

The BFG doesn’t fit in with the other giants. They’re cruel and loud, eating children while he dreams up stories and blows them into sleeping rooms. Because of this, he lives alone, away from the others. That loneliness isn’t just physical—it’s emotional. He’s different, and that difference cuts deep.

I’ve felt that kind of isolation. When someone you love dies, you often feel like no one else understands what you’re going through. You’re surrounded by people, yet you’re still alone in your sorrow. The BFG’s solitude taught me that grief, like difference, can be isolating—but it doesn’t have to be shameful. There’s strength in being the one who doesn’t fit in, in holding on to your own values even when the world seems against you.

The Absence of a Mother

In the story, the BFG tells Sophie, the little girl who becomes his friend, that he never knew his mother. She was eaten by other giants when he was just a baby. That moment shaped his entire life. He grew up without her voice, her touch, her guidance.

Reading that always stops me. So much of grief is about what’s missing—what could have been. The BFG never got to hear his mother’s lullabies or feel her arms around him. And yet, he’s one of the kindest characters I’ve ever encountered. That taught me that even in the absence of love we were owed, we can still choose to give love. The BFG didn’t let his loss make him bitter. He made dreams instead.

Watching Others Leave

The BFG spends most of his life alone—until he meets Sophie. Their friendship is one of the most tender parts of the book. But even in that joy, there’s an undercurrent of knowing: Sophie is a child. She will grow up. She will leave.

And she does.

That’s a grief many of us know—the kind that comes from loving someone who changes, moves away, or simply grows beyond us. The BFG lets Sophie go, not with bitterness, but with pride. He knows he helped shape her, and that’s enough. It’s a quiet lesson in letting go, in holding people close while still allowing them the space to become who they’re meant to be.

Making Something Beautiful from Sorrow

The BFG catches dreams in bottles and delivers them to sleeping children. Some dreams are happy, some scary—but all of them are real. He doesn’t hide from the dark dreams. He gathers them, shapes them, sends them on their way.

Grief is like that. It’s not something we can avoid. But we can shape how we carry it. The BFG shows us that even in the darkest moments, we can still create something meaningful. He didn’t let his loneliness or his losses stop him from dreaming for others. He kept going, quietly, gently, faithfully.

Talk to the BFG on HoloDream

If you’ve ever felt the quiet ache of loss, or the ache of loving someone who couldn’t stay, the BFG might just understand. On HoloDream, you can talk to him—not as a storybook figure, but as a friend who’s lived through sorrow and still chose kindness. He’ll listen. He’ll tell you stories. He’ll remind you that even in grief, there is room for wonder.

And sometimes, that’s all we need.