The Rays of Light: Finding Hope While Living With Grief

Jeremy just happened to be in the area on Christmas Eve. He reached out to see if he could stop by, maybe grab some dinner. Nothing planned. Nothing urgent. Just a check-in.

He has this quiet sixth sense for knowing when I’m struggling — a way of showing up at exactly the right time, even when I haven’t said much out loud. That night was one of those times.

We ended up sitting outside by the fire. The kind of stillness that makes room for honesty.

I told him how worried I was about Christmas morning. How much I hoped I could somehow compartmentalize my emotions — not bury them or deny them — just hold them back enough to be present for Kat and Jason. I didn’t want grief to take over the day. I didn’t want it to steal moments that still mattered.

I also admitted something I’ve carried all year. Even in happy moments, it feels like there’s a cloud that follows me. No matter how good things are, there’s always the same thought lingering in the background — Alex should be here.

There were good things this year. Real ones. Moving in with Kat. Our group trip to Hawaii. Shared laughter. New memories I know I’ll keep forever. And still, every one of them feels complicated because they exist in a world where Alex doesn’t.

I told Jeremy that sometimes it feels wrong to hold joy and grief at the same time. Like being grateful somehow diminishes the pain — or worse, dishonors it.

He listened. Then he offered a reframing that stopped me.

Maybe the good things this year aren’t being overshadowed by the pain, he said. Maybe they’re the rays of light — the moments pulling me out of the darkness.

That shift mattered more than I expected.

Because grief doesn’t cancel joy. And joy doesn’t erase grief. They coexist. They always have. The pain of this year is permanent, but so are the moments that reminded me I’m still capable of loving, laughing, and building a life worth staying for.

Those good things didn’t happen instead of the pain. They happened in spite of it.

The cloud is still there. It probably always will be. But every so often, something breaks through it. A friend showing up unannounced. A shared meal. A quiet laugh. A memory made that doesn’t erase what was lost, but gives me a reason to keep going anyway.

Christmas came. It was hard. It was emotional. And it was also real. I was present. Not perfectly. Not effortlessly. But enough.

I don’t forgive 2025. I still wish Alex were here. That truth doesn’t change.

But I’m learning that the light I experienced this year wasn’t betrayal. It was survival. And maybe even hope.

Not the loud kind.
Just enough.

One ray at a time.

Dedication

For Jeremy — thank you for showing up when I didn’t know how to ask, and for reminding me that light still finds its way in.