The first Christmas without my mom didn’t even feel like Christmas. My world already felt off-balance with her absence — quieter, smaller, lonelier — while everyone else was trying to adjust to life after lifted Covid restrictions, I was trying to adjust to life without my mom. Maybe all the events of the past year and a half had numbed me. Due to the Covid-19 pandemic in the previous year there had been no big gatherings, no expectations, and honestly, it was a sad Christmas. But this year, I knew I would have to muster through as best I could with no Christmas spirit. For my family, Covid still managed to cancel the few Christmas plans we had this year, and I can’t say I was disappointed. The first Christmas without Mom passed quietly.
But the second Christmas after my mom’s death — that was the one that truly broke me.
I wanted to celebrate, decorate, and acknowledge the season — even though it would be different. So I bought a black Christmas tree and carefully strung it with bright neon ornaments and lights, half hoping the brightness would outweigh the heaviness sitting in my chest. It didn’t.
A day or two after decorating the tree, it fell over — just toppling, like it had finally had enough, too. I set it upright, only to watch it fall again. Seeing the toppled tree and ornaments strewn across the floor, something in me snapped. I picked up the tree, slammed it back down on the ground, and said I was done with Christmas. I didn’t even know who I was mad at — the tree, the grief, the universe, or myself for trying to force joy where my heart wasn’t ready to feel it.
My poor husband simply let me have my moment. While I went off to cry, scream or breathe away the overwhelm, he picked up the ornaments, stood the tree upright and secured the base so it wouldn’t fall again. But the truth was, I was already done. I hated the thought of doing Christmas without her. Eventually I redecorated the tree, but I had no Christmas spirit.
Looking back, that toppled tree feels like an honest symbol of grief at the holidays — heavy, off-balance, and sometimes too much to keep standing. But I’ve also learned a few things since then, little reminders that have helped me survive the season when it hurts.
What I’ve Learned About Surviving the Holidays in Grief
1. You don’t have to pretend you’re okay.
Some years will look like toppled trees. Some years you’ll skip the decorations entirely. Both are okay. Grief doesn’t run on the holiday calendar.
2. Grief can’t be out-decorated.
No amount of lights or tinsel can cover the ache. You can’t “brighten away” missing someone — and you don’t need to try.
3. Let others help steady things.
Sometimes support looks like someone quietly fixing the tree while you take a breath. Let them. You don’t have to carry every part of this alone.
4. Make space for the person you miss.
Light a candle. Say their name. Cook their favorite meal. Share a memory out loud. You can still include them in your holiday, just differently.
5. Give yourself permission to do it differently.
Traditions can bend, shrink, or pause. Maybe this year, “celebrating” just means sitting by the tree (or not putting one up at all). That’s still honoring your heart.
6. Expect the waves — and let them come.
Grief shows up in its own way — in a song, a smell, a sudden quiet moment. When it comes, breathe through it instead of fighting it.
7. Keep celebrations small and real.
If big gatherings feel impossible, scale down. Maybe it’s coffee with one friend, or watching a favorite movie in pajamas. There’s no rulebook that says joy must come in crowds.
8. Create a small ritual of remembrance.
Write a letter to your loved one. Hang an ornament for them. Make a donation in their name. Rituals give shape to the love that doesn’t have anywhere else to go.
9. Plan gentle exits.
If you attend gatherings, decide ahead of time how you’ll step away when it’s too much. Drive yourself, have a friend on standby, or simply say, “I need some air.” You owe no explanations.
10. Rest more than you think you need to.
Grief is exhausting — emotionally, physically, spiritually. Rest isn’t laziness; it’s survival.
If this holiday season finds you tender, tired, or trying your best to stay upright, please know you’re not alone. Your grief isn’t an interruption to the holidays — it’s a reflection of your love. Be gentle with yourself this year, in whatever ways you need.