Christmas in Grief: When the Season Holds Both Heartache and Light

Christmas changes after loss.

Not because the holiday itself is different, but because we are. Because the seat that should never be empty is empty. Because the traditions we once loved now hold echoes of someone we can’t bring back. Joy feels complicated, and grief well, grief cares about holidays, trees, or twinkle lights too. It will show up.

This is my third Christmas without him, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that each year truly does carry its own story.

Year One: The Year I Wanted to Hide

That first Christmas, I wanted nothing more than to disappear, to protect everyone from my sadness, from the heaviness I carried and from the fear that I might “ruin” the day for all of us.

I didn’t know how to be in my grief and be in Christmas at the same time. But my beautiful children and grandchildren sat with me and said words I will never forget:

“Mom, we just want to be with you, show up how you are. This is going to be hard, we all feel the weight of him not being here. We need each other. We love you.”

Their love cracked something open in me.

The house was full and I showed up tearful, anxious, honest and somehow, the day became something beautiful. Painful, yes, but beautiful. We were together. We were honest in how we felt and it wasn't awful, it was real. Friends joined us, stories were shared, games were played, and there was laughter, real honest laughter woven through the grief.

That day taught me something:

Being together mattered more than being “fine.”

Year Two: The Year Joy Tiptoed Back In

The second Christmas surprised me.

For the first time since he died, I felt a little spark of excitement. I decorated. I planned. I even created “The John Powell Memorial Cup,” which brought so much laughter and noise into our home. We honoured him by remembering him, not with whispers, but with stories.

I gave each child a memory box, filled with little pieces of him and a letter from me. Something I hope they will keep and revisit long after I’m gone. Those boxes felt like gifts for their future hearts, anchors of love and of legacy for them to return to over and over.

Year two reminded me that joy doesn’t replace grief. It grows alongside it. It rises from the roots of love.

Year Three: A Heavier Season

This Christmas, our third feels heavier in ways I can’t quite explain.

The trees are up (yes, trees my sister truly is a real-life Christmas elf), and our home is festive, warm, and full of nostalgia. But grief sits close this year. We both cry more. We take deeper breaths. The ache has a different texture.

And yet, we don’t hide it from one another. We have learned to sit with each other without fixing it, because this can't be fixed.

There is such a quiet relief in not pretending.

No faking. No performance. No pressure to “be okay.” Just honesty, tenderness, and keeping the people who love us close.

I’m grateful for my sister, for our little zoo of pets, for my children and grandchildren who wrap themselves around my life with so much love. I’m grateful that we’ve created a family culture where grief isn’t silenced it’s witnessed.

Christmas with grief Isn’t About choosing pain or joy.

It’s about making room for both. It’s understanding that grief doesn’t mean you don’t love Christmas anymore. And loving Christmas doesn’t mean your grief has left your heart. It’s about noticing when your heart feels heavy, and giving yourself permission to sit with that. It’s about letting the tears fall when they need to. It’s about accepting the moments of laughter without guilt.

It’s about being open, open to the love that finds you, open to the memories that come back, open to the light that still appears in small, surprising ways. Christmas doesn’t demand that you move on. It simply invites you to show up exactly as you are.

Let This Season Be What It Is

No expectations.

No comparisons to past years or to others.

No forcing yourself to feel something you don’t.

The truth is it's not because you got it “right,” but because you were real. Because you were present. Because you let love and grief stand side by side. And that, that is its own kind of Christmas miracle.

I have always felt that Christmas has carried this unrealistic expectation of JOY, of being the “most wonderful time of the year.” But the truth is, this season has always been about something deeper: connection and love. It’s family and friends, nostalgia and memories, love and loss all woven together. None of that is perfect. The truth is being with family and friends can be a lot even on the best days.

You get to decide how to spend your Christmas.

You don’t have to match the world’s pace, the world’s cheer, or anyone’s expectations. And please don’t compare your Christmas to someone else’s. We never know the full stories people carry… what looks bright on the outside can feel very different on the inside.

Have yourself the Christmas you need the one that honours your heart, your story, and your love.

Love,

Kath