The holidays have a way of stirring things up. The memories, emotions, the quiet ache of wishing things were different, or wishing things were how they used to be.
For some of us, the pain isn’t only about the person we lost. It’s also about how they died. Some losses carry trauma with them: The shock. The replaying. The mind insisting on going over the last moments, the “what ifs,” the “if onlys,” the “why did it happen that way?”
For some people, the death overshadows the life. It becomes the part of the story our hearts fixate on because it hurts the most.
But slowly, often without us even noticing, something begins to soften. The mind stops looping the ending quite so loudly. The body releases just a bit of its guard. The person’s living starts to peek through the fog of their dying. It doesn’t happen all at once. Not neatly. But enough that we can remember their laugh, or the way they cheered us on, or the little quirks that made them unmistakably them.
I was reminded of this shift recently when I heard a news story reference a Blue Christmas, a tradition that quietly acknowledges that this season isn’t merry and bright for everyone. If I’m being honest, the only Blue Christmas I knew about was from an Elvis Presley song, I wanted to know more about this tradition
Blue Christmas gives a name and a space to the very feelings I was describing — grief, loneliness, complicated memories, trauma anniversaries, the longing for someone who isn’t here. It validates that it’s okay to feel heavy during a season that often demands joy. It creates space for the parts of the season that feel heavy, without rushing us to “cheer up,” move on, or pretend.
In a way Blue Christmas mirrors what so many of us experience in grief; a shift from being consumed by the pain of the ending, toward gently remembering the fullness of the life. Not to erase the trauma. Not to minimize the loss. But to honor the whole story, not just the final chapter.
As that shift begins, even in tiny ways, we sometimes feel drawn to do something for them, or maybe because of them:
- Doing one small thing they would have loved
- Speaking their name without bracing
- Carrying forward a value they lived by
- Donating, creating, planting, celebrating — in a way that reflects who they were, not how they died
This season, whether the lights feel warm or too bright, maybe there’s room for one gentle act done in their name. Something they would choose, if they were still here. Something that honors how they lived, not just how they died.
For me, my one small thing is a box of chocolate-covered cherries. Every Christmas, without fail, I bought my mom a box of chocolate-covered cherries. Now I buy myself a box and eat every single cherry (not all at once) with a smile, fondly remembering how much she loved the simplest things.Wishing you a wonderful holiday season, may you find small joys and sweet reminders of those you hold dear.