Holidays are rarely just joyful. They’re layered—holding love and loss, connection and exhaustion, all at once. This reflection comes from a week that was deeply beautiful and quietly overwhelming, a reminder that grief doesn’t disappear during celebrations—it simply shares the space.
When Grief and Joy Arrive Together
Christmas held grief and joy, just as I expected it would.
Our twins gave my husband and me an ornament—of the two of us and our daughter—and in that moment, I was hit with a chestful of everything at once: love and grief, sweetness and bitterness, colliding in the same breath. It lodged in my throat, a small and beautiful ache. I swallowed it down, but tears sprang to my eyes, and my voice caught as I told them how much I loved it.
My son came over and hugged me hard, asking if I was okay.
I was.
And I wasn’t.
I smiled and nodded, as we do.
That was the energy of the day.
The Quiet Grief of Goodbyes
The next day—Boxing Day—we took my youngest daughter to the airport. She didn’t want to go. She didn’t want to return to her demanding job or to living alone in another state. Her time of respite was over.
I held it together until we pulled away, and then my heart split open all over again—quietly, the way it does when no one is watching. Grief doesn’t always announce itself loudly. Sometimes it slips in through ordinary moments and leaves you hollowed out before you realize what’s happening.
When the Noise Stops
Then the weekend arrived. Two completely unscheduled days stretched out in front of me, and to my surprise, I felt slightly panicked. The silence felt wide and unfamiliar.
I reached for ways to fill the time. I got up, walked, weeded the garden, wiped down counters that didn’t need cleaning—trying to anchor myself in motion, trying not to feel the drop after the emotional surge of the holidays.
Listening to What the Body Needs
But by 3 p.m., I was bundled back in my pajamas and cozy socks, curled into my favorite chair by the window. Outside, the sky was a pale winter gray, the light soft and heavy, as if everything was exhaling.
A cup of tea warmed my hands. My journal rested in my lap, half-open. I wasn’t writing—just sitting there, watching the stillness, letting the weight of it all settle.
I was spent in a way that had nothing to do with doing, and everything to do with feeling.
In the end, what I needed was exactly that: time with nothing planned.
When Fullness Feels Heavy
I don’t want to think about Christmas anymore.
Not because it was bad—but because it was full.
And I felt relief when it was over.
Sometimes grief doesn’t come from emptiness alone. Sometimes it comes from abundance—the emotional weight of love, memory, presence, and meaning all pressing in at once.
Regulating After the Holidays
More than anything this week, I’ve been trying to regulate my body. After the emotional surge of the holidays and the quiet drop that followed, my nervous system needed gentleness more than meaning.
Less thinking.
More softness.
Simple days.
Early nights.
Letting myself come back into myself without demanding clarity or closure.
Looking Ahead Without Pressure
The new year is coming, but it doesn’t carry the same intensity. There’s space around it. I’m not making declarations or resolutions.
I’m simply looking ahead—allowing the next week to arrive without dragging the last one along with it.
Maybe with a hot mug of tea and a quiet morning sky.
A Gentle Invitation
If you’re finding yourself tired—not from doing, but from feeling—I hope you’re giving yourself room to rest too.
Sometimes the most necessary thing we can do after the holidays is nothing at all.
A reflective essay on holding grief and joy after the holidays—navigating emotional exhaustion, nervous system regulation, and finding rest when life feels full.