Skip to main content

Week 155: What I Hold Onto Now



Grief is the suitcase I can’t put down, even in a season meant for joy.


This past week was heavy, even though I was surrounded by people I love—my two grown children, who I absolutely adore, and my husband, who remains one of the bright spots in my life. My husband and I were in another state helping our daughter settle into a new job and apartment. I’m grateful for that time with her, but even so, it felt like I was carrying a suitcase full of grief wherever I went.


My son also flew in for the Thanksgiving holiday. We try to be together around that date—not to celebrate Thanksgiving, but to honor the loss of my oldest daughter, their oldest sibling, who died on Thanksgiving three years ago.


I only had enough energy to give them my presence—and some forced good cheer. Taking them to see Denver sights, going out to dinners, listening to their stories, hearing them banter… those moments are what make these holidays bearable. That was all I had to offer.


The holidays used to be something I loved and looked forward to. Now they feel like something I have to survive—for my kids’ sake. They’re 22, young adults, but I know that more than anything they just want me and their dad to be okay. So I pretend, at least in the everyday moments of small talk or planning our day. If they ask me plainly how I’m doing, I’ll open up a little and say I’m sad. I try to ask how they’re doing too, though I’m not sure I did that with my son this time—his visit was so short. But he asked how I was, and we hugged, and that meant a lot.


I do get small moments of joy through them, and I hold onto those. But if I could skip the holidays altogether and pretend they didn’t exist, I would.


Lil loved the holidays. She loved the chaotic family gatherings, the music, the togetherness—everything. It’s not the same without her. My joy and love for this season died with her. I find myself faking it, trying to show up for my two living children, who still deserve happiness and tradition. I do it for them.


Christmas carries its own weight. Two years ago, my dad died the week before Christmas. A season that once meant warmth and celebration is now thick with loss.


I’m thankful my children are adults now, flying the nest. That gives me space—moments where I can simply feel what I feel without pretending. But the actual holidays? I dread them.


What I don’t dread is them coming home. I focus on that now—the moments we’re together, not the holiday itself. That’s what I hold onto.


Something else I can’t help but notice around this time of year is who remembers my daughter’s angelversary and who doesn’t. I sometimes consider cutting people out of my life over it, but that would include my own mother, and I know that means my sensitivity is heightened. I have to consciously remind myself that Lil wasn’t everyone’s world the way she was mine.


Still, it got to me. I let it sit heavy on me for about a week before deciding to let it go—or maybe it finally released me, because I was trying. I had to honor what came up.


I may never love the holidays again—but I do love the people who still show up in them with me. I can hold space for the grief, for the remembering, and for the tiny moments of joy. I don’t have to choose one over the other. Maybe that’s how healing quietly begins.





We’d Love to Hear From You

Share a reflection, a memory, or just say hello below.

Popular posts from this blog

Week 140: A Grief Toolkit: 12 Things That Help Me Breathe

Grief has a way of showing up like an uninvited guest — one who doesn’t call ahead, and doesn’t care if you’re ready. When those moments come, I reach for my grief toolkit — a collection of things that help me survive the next breath, the next hour, the next day. These aren’t cures for grief. Nothing “fixes” it. They’re simply what makes it bearable for me. I’m sharing mine in case it inspires you to create your own grief toolkit, filled with whatever brings you comfort. What’s in My Grief Toolkit 1. My Daughter’s Blanket It’s navy blue fleece covered in cheerful animals. She used it constantly — even when it was 90 degrees outside. Now I do the same. Sometimes it’s on my lap, sometimes draped behind my head on the couch, but always close. It reminds me of our closeness in life, how we were rarely more than an arm’s reach apart. 2. The “Mommy and Me” Candle A soft jasmine scent, a rose quartz crystal nestled in soy wax. I light it on her birthday, her “angelversary,” or on National Chi...
Read more

Week 137: Trying On Myself Without Her: Rediscovering Identity After Losing My Daughter

  Rebuilding Identity After Loss Lately, I’ve been spending hours trying to figure out what colors look good on me. I hold up fabric swatches to my face in the mirror. Warm or cool? Autumn or Winter? Olive skin or just bad lighting? I click through endless YouTube videos about Kibbe body types, staring at women explaining bone structure and yin/yang balance like it’s some secret code to unlocking the real me. It’s become its own kind of ritual—comparing necklines, scrolling through capsule wardrobes, wondering which version of myself I’m supposed to be now. It might seem shallow—or at least frivolous. And maybe it is. But right now, it’s easier to be authentic on the outside than to face how lost I feel on the inside. Losing Her—and Myself Since losing my daughter, the person I was has gone missing. She took whole pieces of me with her. And so now, I’m hunting for identity in strange places—like in the shape of a sleeve, the drape of a fabric, the difference between camel and taupe...
Read more

Week 136: Why Stillness Feels Scary (and What It Might Be Telling Us)

When rest finally arrives, why does it sometimes feel so uncomfortable? This personal reflection explores the fear of stillness, the quiet rise of grief, and what happens when we stop running from silence. A heartfelt take on loss, love, and learning to sit with grief. I Craved Peace—But Got Something Else This past weekend, I was craving quiet. After weeks of nonstop movement—some necessary, some self-imposed—I thought having nothing to do would feel like a gift. I imagined rest. Stillness. Time with my husband and our adult kids, home for summer. But as the weekend approached, I started to feel uneasy. Like walking into a quiet room and realizing the silence might not be safe. When Life Is Full, the Inner World Can Feel Chaotic Even when everything looks fine on the outside, my internal world can feel like a tennis match—grief and distraction smacking me back and forth. I wanted to rest. And on the surface, I did: music, a walk, a drink, time with family. It was lovely. But rest does...
Read more