A Reflection on Grief, Light, and Making Room for What’s Real

Our culture tells us this is supposed to be “the most wonderful time of the year,” but that has never been the whole truth. For many of us, the holidays are tender and complex. Beautiful and painful in the same breath. Over the years, I’ve wrestled with the expectations of the holidays. Even though I feel it is my calling to help people hold both the grief and the light in their lives, sometimes I struggle to do it myself.

I’m someone for whom the holidays hold real joy and real grief. Two significant losses happened for me in December. My grandmother died suddenly on December 9th. A few years later, my father died on December 18th after a yearlong illness. I still have the wrapped presents I had prepared for my grandmother the Christmas she died. For many years, I placed them beneath my tree still unopened.

When Gary and I decorate our home each December, we unwrap a whole world of memories. The ceramic Christmas tree with the tiny glowing bulbs that belonged to his grandmother. The hand-carved Advent candleholder my father made. The ornaments for each of our dogs, living and dead. Sometimes we laugh. Sometimes we cry. Often it’s both.

And I would never want to separate those memories from the holidays. They are part of my story. Part of my love.

While the world around us pushes festivity, many people enter this season carrying loss, loneliness, exhaustion, uncertainty, and unresolved stories. Then there are the quieter griefs ~ the traditions that have changed, the relationships that have shifted, the future we imagined that didn’t unfold. Søren Kierkegaard once wrote, “The most painful state of being is remembering the future, particularly the one you’ll never have.”

We all grow up with an image of what the holidays are supposed to be that is shaped by family, by culture, and yes, by the Hallmark industrial complex. But life has its own way with us, right?

The truth is, it doesn’t have to be the most wonderful time of the year. It can be messy, quiet, confusing, complicated… and it can still be meaningful.

I’ve come to believe that honoring both the light and the dark of this season is a profound act of compassion for ourselves and for the world. When we allow ourselves to feel what we feel, we make space for others to do the same. When we acknowledge our grief instead of hiding it, we chip away at the toxic positivity that tells us to “cheer up” or “fake it ’til we make it.” When we refuse to rush past our sadness, we acknowledge that being human is not a flaw. It is our most honest form of connection.

One of my favorite winter images comes from a story about Robert Louis Stevenson. As a child, he watched a lamplighter move down the street on a cold night, lighting one lamp after another. “Look!” young Robert told his nurse. “There’s a man poking holes in the darkness.”

This time of year, I think a lot about that. How each of us carries a small light. I often find my own light in simple rituals. Lighting a candle for someone I miss, sitting for a few quiet minutes before the day begins, breathing deeply when the world feels too loud. These small moments don’t erase the sadness, but they make room for it. They remind me that sorrow and joy can sit together at the same holiday table.

So this year, I invite you to be gentle with yourself. Honor the traditions you love and release the ones that hurt. Make space for memories that arrive uninvited. Light a candle for someone who lives in your heart. Step outside and breathe in the cold air. Let your heart feel what it feels.

Grief is not an interruption of the holidays. It is part of them. And we are more human ~ and more connected ~ when we acknowledge that truth.

A few questions to hold this season:
• What tenderness or longing is present for you this holiday?
• What small ritual helps you honor your own light?
• What do you need less of? What do you need more of in this season?

If you’d like support ~ whether in your grief, your healing, or your longing for deeper meaning ~ please reach out. I would love to connect.

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Kristabeth Atwood is a spiritual director, writer, and celebrant who creates spaces for reflection, connection, and meaning in life’s transitions. You can reach out to learn more or schedule a discernment session with Kristabeth.