The Conflict of Holding Christmas

I came across an Instagram reel the other day that made me stop and think.

“There is a special kind of courage in parents who create magic for one child while aching for another.”

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And while I understand what it’s trying to honor, I don’t know that courage is the right word for how this actually feels.

Trying to make Christmas special for Jason while mourning Alex doesn’t feel courageous to me. It doesn’t feel strong or admirable. It feels like responsibility. It feels like love. It feels like something I do because I am Jason’s parent—not because I’m brave.

I don’t love Jason any less than I love Alex. And Alex’s loss does not diminish Jason’s importance, his needs, or his right to experience joy—especially during the holidays.

Love Is Not a Scale

There’s an assumption that after losing a child, love must be redistributed. As if one child’s absence changes the weight of love for the one still here.

It doesn’t.

Jason and Alex are different people. I love them differently because they are different—not more, not less. Love isn’t a scale that needs to be balanced after loss.

I’m often reminded of the movie Stand By Me. One of the boys loses his older brother, and his parents become so consumed by their grief that they barely acknowledge the son still living under their roof. Their loss erases the child who remains.

That story has stayed with me.

Jason does exist. He exists fully. And I refuse to let grief make him invisible.

Wanting Two Opposite Things at Once

Here is the truth I keep coming back to:

I don’t want to have Christmas without Alex.
And I also don’t want to not have Christmas with Jason.

Both of those things are true at the same time.

So I’m decorating the house. I’m putting up lights. I’m trying to make it feel like Christmas—even though every tradition carries the weight of who should also be here.

None of it feels magical. It feels heavy. It feels conflicted.

This Isn’t Courage—It’s Tension

If I’m honest, I don’t feel courageous at all.

I feel torn.

I feel pulled between honoring my grief and protecting Jason’s experience of the holidays. I feel the tension of wanting time to stop and knowing it won’t. I feel the exhaustion of holding two truths at once and having nowhere to set either one down.

Maybe from the outside this looks like courage.
From the inside, it feels like conflict.

And maybe that’s okay.

I don’t need this season to make me stronger or braver. I just need it to be honest. I need room for Alex to be missing and for Jason to be present. I need space for grief and for love that still needs me.

If there is anything “special” about parenting through loss, it’s not courage. It’s staying in the discomfort without choosing one child over the other.

Some days, that’s the best I can do.