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.