The Tension Between Joy and Grief
The holidays hold a strange kind of tension for those of us who are grieving. It feels like the world turns up the brightness at the exact moment our hearts feel dim. Everywhere you look, people are celebrating, decorating, planning, laughing, and leaning into the magic of the season, while we are quietly trying to make it through the day without breaking apart. Nothing in life prepares you for how sharply the holidays can feel after losing someone you love, especially a child. The expectations of the season can feel overwhelming, and the contrast between what others are experiencing and what you are carrying becomes painfully clear.
The Christmases That Once Filled the House With Magic
When Logan was young, Christmas was not just a season. It was an event. I decorated the house like we were trying to keep up with Rockefeller Center. There were lights everywhere, trees in multiple rooms, and music playing constantly. It was joyful and warm and noisy and chaotic in the best way. Those were the holidays that kids remember forever, full of laughter and excitement and endless little moments that made the whole house come alive. Even as Logan got older and stepped into his own life, that spark of excitement stayed with me. Maybe the decorations were not quite as over the top, but the joy of the season still lived inside our home.
How Grief Changes the Atmosphere
When Logan died, the entire feeling of the holidays changed. Suddenly the colors felt muted and even the music seemed different. The joy wrapped inside the memories carried a bittersweet ache that touched everything. This year is the fifth Christmas without him, and I think I have finally learned something important. The heaviness does not mean you are failing at grief. It does not mean you are stuck. It simply means you loved someone deeply, and their absence feels especially loud during a time of year built around togetherness.
Letting Yourself Off the Hook
One of the most important lessons I have learned is that you do not have to force yourself into holiday cheer. You do not have to pretend that the season feels magical when it does not. You do not have to hold onto traditions that no longer match the shape of your life. You are allowed to let your holidays look different now. You are allowed to protect your heart and to honor your needs in whatever way feels right to you. Last year, I put up a tree, but it was not the big display I used to create. It was an old aluminum tree from the 1960s, a vintage piece that Logan loved. It was small and quiet and simple, and it brought me comfort. That was enough.
Enough Is Truly Enough
Many grieving people need to hear this clearly. Enough is enough. You do not have to match anyone’s expectations. You do not have to meet the standards you set for yourself years ago. You are different now because your life is different now. Grief changes what you can carry and that is okay. The holidays do not require perfection. They do not require big gestures. They only require honesty, whatever that honesty looks like for you today.
Your Holidays Can Be Flexible
Some days you may feel strong enough to join family for dinner. Other days you may need to step outside because the noise is simply too much. You might hang a stocking one year and skip it the next. You might cry during a song that used to make you smile. You might laugh unexpectedly at an old memory. Grief moves in waves that do not follow a schedule. The holidays do not pause those waves and they certainly do not smooth them out. If anything, they sometimes bring them closer to the surface.
You Are Not Moving Backward
When the holidays feel hard, it does not mean you are going backward. It does not mean you have lost progress. You are not doing anything wrong. You are grieving and grief is not something you finish. It is something you learn to carry. The holidays have a way of revealing just how much weight your heart has been holding. That does not mean you are broken. It means you loved someone whose absence will always be felt.
Memories That Comfort and Cut
Some memories feel like gifts. Others feel like sharp edges. Both are part of loving someone who is no longer here. You do not have to choose between joy and pain. You do not have to hide your joy when it shows up. You do not have to apologize for your pain when it rises without warning. You can hold love and heartbreak at the same time. You can smile and cry within the same moment. Both are true, and both are allowed.
The Smallest Lights Still Count
What I have learned is that the light we find during the holidays after loss is rarely bright or overwhelming. It is softer and smaller and much more gentle. It might arrive as a memory that lands softly instead of breaking you. It might be someone saying your child’s name. It might be a story you have never heard before. It might be a photo you forgot about. It might be a quiet moment of peace that surprises you. Sometimes the smallest ember of light becomes the guide you need for a difficult season.
Honoring Your Loved One in Your Own Way
If honoring your loved one feels right to you, you can do it in any way that brings comfort. It does not need to be dramatic. It does not need to be public. You can light a candle, hang a special ornament, cook their favorite food, write them a letter, play a song, donate something in their name, or simply speak their name out loud. Sometimes that is the most powerful act of remembrance of all.
You Are Not Doing the Holidays Wrong
If this season feels heavy for you, please hear this. You are not doing it wrong. You are not broken. You are not weak. You are grieving someone who mattered, someone whose absence shaped your entire world. You are allowed to feel everything you feel. You are allowed to rest. You are allowed to cry. You are allowed to smile. You are allowed to do less. You are allowed to protect your heart.
You Are Not Alone
If you are walking through a holiday season that feels heavy, I am holding space for you. I am honoring your person with you. And I want to remind you gently and honestly that you do not have to chase joy or force it to show up. Sometimes the smallest ember of light is enough to help you keep going. Maybe that is what the holidays become after loss. Not a season of forced cheer, but a season of honesty. A season of permission. A season of remembering love in whatever form it takes this year. A season where light and heaviness are allowed to exist together.
You are not alone in this. Not for a single moment.
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