Christmas used to feel simple.

It used to arrive wrapped in familiar colors—soft lights, warm gatherings, the quiet magic that settles over everything. But now the season carries a heaviness I never asked for. Since losing my son, December has become a collision of emotions: grief that sits in my chest like a stone, and love for the people still here with me, who deserve joy, connection, and memories that sparkle.

Holding both at the same time is its own kind of impossible.

When the Holidays Hurt More Than They Shine

There’s something uniquely painful about grieving during a season that insists on cheerfulness. Everywhere I turn, there are reminders of what I’ve lost—songs he might have loved, traditions he should still be part of, families that look whole when mine no longer is.

The world keeps telling me it’s time to be merry. But my heart hasn’t gotten the message.

And yet… grief is not the whole story. Not even now.

Loving the Ones Still Here

I still want Christmas to matter. I still want to show up for the people I love. There is a deep, almost instinctive urge to create beauty for them—to hang lights, wrap gifts, cook the meals. Not because I’m trying to pretend everything is okay, but because their presence is a part of what keeps me going.

But there’s a quiet conflict inside me:
How do I honor my son without being swallowed by the ache of missing him?
How do I celebrate without feeling like I’m leaving him behind?
How do I give others joy when my own heart is fractured?

These questions sit beside me throughout the season, and I’m learning that the answer isn’t in choosing one emotion over the other. It’s in allowing both.

Making Space for Grief and Joy

I am discovering that grief and joy can share the same room, even if they don’t sit comfortably together.

Some days the sorrow wins. On those days, I let it, hold his memory close, and let the tears come, because love this big doesn’t disappear just because the calendar turns to December.

Other days, I catch myself laughing — or imagining the smile on someone’s face when they open a gift. And instead of feeling guilty, I remind myself: joy does not betray grief. Joy honors life—his life, my own, and the lives of those still beside me.

The Holiday I’m Learning to Create

This Christmas won’t look like the ones before. It can’t. But it can still mean something.

I’m learning to weave my son’s memory into the season in quiet, gentle ways—a favorite ornament, a moment of stillness, a tradition that carries him forward. And I’m learning to give myself grace when everything feels too heavy.

I don’t have all the answers. I’m not sure I ever will.

But I know this:
Grief doesn’t cancel love.
Missing someone doesn’t mean I forget to cherish those still here.
And a heart that is broken can still give—softly, carefully, honestly.

This Christmas, I will show up in whatever way I can. I will honor my son, and I will hold close the people who remain. I will let the season be both painful and beautiful, because that’s the truth of my life right now.

And maybe, in its own imperfect way, that is enough.