The Bittersweet Side of the Holidays
The holidays are about family. Connections. Tradition. Laughing in the kitchen, clinking glasses, sharing stories that somehow get funnier each year. But when you’ve lost someone who was at the center of your world - a parent, a grandparent, a spouse, a sibling… or the unimaginable, a child - the holidays don’t feel the same. They feel tender. Heavy. Bittersweet. For many of us, the holidays amplify the ache. They shine a light on the empty space at the table, the missing voice in the room, the silence where laughter used to be. And I know that feeling well.
My mom has been gone for 16 years. My dad has been gone for 6. And even after all this time - even with my beautiful little family around me, even with all the traditions we’ve created together - there is still a hole. A space in my heart that never filled back in. The holidays are, for me, a bittersweet blend of joy and grief. I absolutely love creating the magic… the cozy home, the decorations, carrying on our holiday traditions, the warmth of watching my boys and our family gather together. But underneath it all, there’s still that ache. Christmas Eve is the hardest. It always has been. The first few years after losing my mom, I would spend half the day crying - wrapping presents with tears dripping onto the paper, cleaning the house while my heart felt completely shattered, all while trying to hold it together and be festive in front of the boys. I remember that first Christmas Eve, we went as a family to a church service… because it felt like the right thing to do to honor her. She was so deeply religious. And I sobbed through the entire thing. Afterward, I sat in the car as we drove to my grandma’s for our traditional Christmas Eve gathering and it took a good 15 minutes to pull myself together enough to carry on with the night. I can still feel that ache - that mix of heartbreak and obligation and wanting everything to feel normal when it simply wasn’t. And with my dad gone now too, I miss him just as deeply. I can still hear him walking through my door on Thanksgiving saying, “My man!!” to my husband and the boys - every single year. That first year, I sat staring at my front door with tears in my eyes just waiting for that door to open… which of course it never did. I didn’t know how much I’d miss that moment until it became a memory. It’s gotten a bit easier, yes. But the tears still come, the memories still pop up with a song, a phrase, a smell… memories that still take my breath away. Grief doesn’t vanish. It softens around the edges, but the center stays tender.
If your holidays feel heavy, you’re not alone. There is a particular ache that comes from losing someone close - the kind that lives in your bones. The kind that holidays tend to pull to the forefront. And the truth is: It’s okay to love the season and still hurt inside it. It’s okay to feel grateful and devastated at the same time. It’s okay if joy looks different now. You’re not doing the holidays wrong… you are doing them honestly.
This is also where decor can become more than just decorating. It becomes comfort - a physical way to make space for your emotions. Here are some deeply meaningful ways to support yourself through the season:
Create a small ‘heart space’ in your home. A candle for your mom, a photo of your dad, an ornament that reminds you of someone you’re missing. Not a shrine. Just a space where love and memories can sit together.
Decorate softer, slower, and more gently. You don’t have to do it all. You don’t have to be cheerful every minute. You don’t have to perform and exude holiday joy at all times. Let your decorations match your emotional capacity. Some years will be more. Some years will be less. Both are completely okay.
Surround yourself with warmth. Think soft blankets, warm lights, the glow of candles. Textures that feel comforting and scents that remind you of home. These elements help your nervous system settle - even when your heart feels very unsettled.
Give yourself permission to pause. Cry if you need to. Step away if you need to. Take a breath in the middle of the kitchen if grief hits you hard out of nowhere. Honor the wave of grief instead of fighting it. It passes faster that way.
Let their presence be part of the season. Say their name, tell their stories or cook their favorite dish. Hang an ornament that reminds you of them. It may seem counterproductive but it can actually be quite comforting. Love doesn’t disappear. It just shifts shape.
Grief is simply love that doesn’t know where to go. And the holidays can bring it right up to the surface. If you’re hurting this year, please know this: You’re not weak. You’re not failing. You’re not being ‘too emotional’. You’re a person who loved deeply, and deep love leaves deep holes and echoes. Let your holidays be whatever they need to be - soft, quiet, messy, emotional, gentle, imperfect. There is no right way to do it, there is only your way. And that is enough.
If you’re grieving this season, more than anything I just want you to know you’re not alone. I’ve walked through many holidays with a tear in my eye and a lump in my throat. If your heart feels tender, let it be tender. Your love is allowed to take up space. Your grief is allowed to take up space. I see you. And I’m sending you the biggest, warmest hug - today and every day you miss someone you love.
-Shannon