Christmas For Those Who Grieve
Dear Inklings,
Christmas is not always a joyous time for everyone, particularly for those of us who are grieving.
I write this letter for you.
I reflect on the way holidays make feelings of grief more acute, and how my family honours those we’ve lost in this time when others seem focused on celebrating.
The season came upon me somewhat by surprise, in the sense that there was a part of me that expected it to be easier than previous years. After all, our family is more or less out of crisis mode for the first time in many years. We moved out of a home that carried painful memories of those years. Elanor, our miracle baby, is with us this Christmas.
And yet.
Instead of the bittersweetness I expected, sorrow is still the most prevalent emotion, with barely a trace of sweetness.
Christmas was once the holiday I loved most. So much that every year I fought to put up the tree as early as possible (September was the earliest I could bargain one year). 2020 changed everything.
With back-to-back miscarriages in February and March, my grief swallowed me and left me spending time in psychiatric hospitals.
That year, knowing my Christmas obsession, Ren instructed M to put up the Christmas tree during one of these confinements so I’d see it when I came home. By that time, we had already begun the process to adopt him into our family. We celebrated Christmas an ocean apart, promising we’d spend the next Christmas together.
But that following March, Ren’s health started rapidly deteriorating, and by May, he was gone.
Since then, I have been unable to find joy in the Christmas season.
Those of you who face the holidays with dread, I see you. There are some reminders I give to myself that I hope may speak grace into your heart as well:
You are allowed to ask for your loved ones to be remembered in the way you choose during holiday gatherings.
You are allowed to excuse yourself from gatherings altogether if they are too overwhelming.
Your feelings are valid and are allowed to take up space during this season.
You are allowed to hold multiple conflicting emotions at once: grief, joy, apprehension, gratitude, anger, and everything in between.
You are allowed to reach out for help from those who love you when you need support.
You are allowed to stay away from those who don’t understand or are impatient with your grief.
More people love you than you think.
Finding the season hard to get through doesn’t make you ungrateful for what you do have. It makes you human.
Grief follows no one’s schedule. It doesn’t go away when you want it to, and it often shows up at the most random times for seemingly innocuous reasons. It sits on your chest until you can barely breathe and every movement feels like you are wading through molasses.
It’s not okay and maybe it never will be.
And that’s okay.
Grief is an invisible line you cross when you lose someone beloved; it is lonely.
The only thing I will insist on is: please don’t be alone.
Because I know how quickly that pit can swallow you whole, and you will need a hand to hold onto.
Last year, M and I began a ritual of lighting a candle for Ren on Christmas Eve. On Christmas Day, we visit the cemetery and toast a Pepsi, leaving one for him. We walk along the canyon where his ashes were scattered and share our memories of him. We laugh. We cry. Sometimes both at once.
With these small ways we remember him and weave him into the fabric of our family.
I end this letter by sharing a small part of what I wrote to Ren this year.
“Life seems to keep moving on without you. And yet it also hasn't. Tomorrow is Christmas, when Advent ends. The time of waiting ends. One day we will finally be together. That is the hope we have in Christ. The wait has been so much longer than we ever wanted, but one day the waiting will turn to utter joy. Until then, I carry your heart in mine and search for you in every cloud in the sky. I love you forever, my beloved.”
Be gentle with yourself today and every day.
With Love,
