Hamnet

A reflection on grief, witness, and creativity

Hamnet is a film about grief — raw, disorienting, and profoundly lonely.

I can only imagine the pain of losing a child. In Hamnet, when Shakespeare receives news that his youngest daughter has fallen ill with the plague, he rushes home. His wife, Agnes, stays up all night caring for their daughter, only to wake and find their son dying beside her — while their daughter survives.

When Shakespeare finally arrives, he is overjoyed to see his daughter alive, only for that relief to collapse into devastation as he realises their only son has died. Agnes’s anger is directed towards him — not just because he was absent, but because he did not witness the fear, the helplessness, the moment their son slipped away. His calm presence feels unbearable to her, widening the distance between them rather than soothing it.

It becomes clear that this loss is not bringing them closer, but pushing them apart. They struggle to speak to one another, as though the pain itself makes language impossible. Grief here feels isolating — not only from the world, but within the relationship itself.

What I found especially moving is how the film handles the later stages of grief. The couple are separated, each carrying their sorrow alone, until Shakespeare writes and performs a play about their son. Through this act of creation, something shifts. The play allows them to grieve together — not through direct conversation, but through symbol, story, and shared experience.

The play does not only touch them, but the audience as well. Grief becomes communal. The sense of being alone with unbearable pain begins to soften. There is something deeply healing about grief being witnessed — about realising that sorrow does not belong to us alone.

From an art therapy perspective, this feels significant.

There is a danger in holding grief in isolation. Without witness, pain can remain unprocessed, slowly eroding one’s sense of self and even impacting the body. Creativity offers another way. The play becomes a form of therapy — for Shakespeare as the creator, for Agnes as the witness, and for the audience who are able to connect their own losses to the story unfolding before them.

I found myself relating my own experiences of grief to this film. Watching it felt both painful and strangely healing. The play also immortalises their son — fulfilling his wish to be part of his father’s work. In this way, they honour his name and his life, allowing him to continue existing in story and memory.

Art has helped me process grief in my own life. Having others witness that process made me feel less alone — as though I could breathe again. I don’t believe art is a cure for grief, but I do believe it can be a powerful medium through which healing begins.

As we know, grief comes in waves. And when those waves feel as though they might drown us, what helps us feel like we are swimming towards the surface?

A therapeutic space that allows for creative expression can offer grounding, containment, and a pathway back to connection — both with ourselves and with others. I believe this is what the play ultimately offered the Shakespeare family: not an end to grief, but a way to live alongside it.

I’m curious — what did this film evoke for you?