When Joy and Grief Share a Seat at Christmas

Christmas is often wrapped in expectations of joy, gratitude, and togetherness — yet for many of us, it’s also wrapped in loss, longing, and quiet, or not so quiet ache. This is a reflection on what it’s like to carry grief through the holidays. It’s not about fixing the pain or pretending it isn’t there, but about naming what’s real so more space can exist in the body, the heart, and the soul. If you’ve ever felt out of sync with the forced cheer of the season, this is for you.

Lightness

Christmas and grief often live in the same room, yet we rarely hold space for the grief, speak it, or honor it.

Christmas can be incredibly magical and joyful. And at the same time, for many people, Christmas is one of the hardest and most dreaded times of the year. I almost feel like Scrooge even writing this. Is there something wrong with me for feeling this?  Be grateful. Focus on the good. Make it nice for your kids and family. But there is a lot more to it...

If you’re not in a place to hold space for heavier feelings right now, it’s okay to pause here and come back when you can.

Imagine I’m holding out my hands. In my right hand, I’m holding the lightness: the joy, the gratitude, the “easy” feelings. I am truly grateful. I’m grateful I get to pull out Christmas decorations and create magic in our home. I’m grateful I can bake goodies, that I have a home, a beautiful husband and kids, animals, food in my cupboards, gifts to give, and gatherings to attend. I know I am deeply blessed, and I give thanks for this daily.

Reflective Question: What are the small, real moments of lightness or gratitude you notice this season?

Heaviness / Grief

In my left hand, I’m holding the heaviness: the grief, the hard, uncomfortable feelings people don’t like to feel or talk about. The ones we’re told to push down, silence, or hide. The ones we often feel shame for having.

This year, my grief feels like a snow globe that’s been shaken up. I don’t feel grounded or steady. It feels like the beginning of a storm — wind slowly picking up, the air dropping in temperature, the sky getting darker. I feel like I’m packing for this storm, trying to prepare, wondering what I’ll need to survive it.

There are three beautiful family members — Art Mowat, Marjorie Grove, and Cory Mowat — who were here last Christmas and aren’t here now. Cory’s funeral is on December 20th, the day before Christmas at my parents’ home. It feels like a smorgasbord of emotions — grief, shock, love, sadness, disbelief — all piled onto one overflowing plate that I’m somehow expected to carry while also smiling, making plans, and wrapping presents.

But it’s not just the funeral. It’s Christmas Eve. It’s walking into the room and not seeing Art sitting in his chair, looking into my eyes while saying, "I just love you". Not hearing Marjorie’s voice or laugh. Not getting to hug them and wish them a Merry Christmas.

That’s the part my mind keeps trying to rehearse, almost like I can prepare for the impact. If I imagine it enough times, maybe it won’t hurt so much. Hoping that maybe it will be easier when it actually happens.

And then there is my daughter, away this year. I thought this would be her last Christmas at home — but she won’t be here. I didn’t know last year would be that  Christmas. I didn’t know there wouldn’t be a “next time” in the way I imagined. I wish I had soaked in more moments. I wish I had done less and been more present last Christmas. But I didn’t know. Life doesn’t always give us the warning.

One moment my heart is breaking —and the next, I’m trying to create joy.

I know Christmas is going to be hard. I know it’s going to hurt. And instead of pretending it won’t, I’m trying to give myself permission to fall apart when I need to. If that means letting the tears come, then that’s what I’ll do. That’s not weakness. That’s listening to my body and letting it release what is real. It also means that it's completely Okay to not do all the "normal" things I usually do during the holidays....it's Okay to do something completely different.

Reflective Question:  What losses or absences are you carrying this season, and how can you give yourself permission to feel them?

The Swing

The swing from grief to what is “supposed” to be celebration feels brutal.

One moment I may be in tears, in silence, barely holding it together —and the next, I’m expected to show up smiling, light-hearted, and present.

My nervous system doesn’t switch gears that easily. My heart doesn’t either.

And it isn’t just about funerals and loss. For many people, this season comes with invisible weight — walking into Christmas parties while your chest feels tight, sitting at family dinners while you’ve just cried in the bathroom, carrying financial stress and wondering how you’re going to make it work, how you’ll give your kids what they’re hoping for.

We are so often expected to jump from heavy to light, from pain to performance, without space to breathe in between. That whiplash is real. And it matters.

Reflective Question: Where do you notice the swing between heaviness and lightness in your life this season?

Grief Is Real

Grief is not something to be solved. It is something to be supported. Grief is real, just like joy is real. You are not weak, broken, or ungrateful if you are not feeling excited about Christmas.

I know I am more sensitive this year. I feel it in my body: more anxiety, more tightening, panic hovering just under the surface, tears always waiting. Anger and fear burning, wanting to be released. Regret whispering about what I “should” have done. Confusion bouncing between the beauty of the season and the weight of the losses.

And all of this is real. When we can name what’s real, something softens.

When we allow ourselves to feel what’s true, space opens in the body, mind, and soul — even if just a little.

Reflective Question:  How can you honor your grief this season without judgment or shame? What physical sensations or emotions are showing up for you right now, and can you notice them without trying to fix them?

We need to talk about grief honestly. We need to stop pretending it’s comfortable, neat, or fixable. Unhelpful grief support needs to be named so it can get better.

If someone truly wants to help a grieving person, they don’t need to have the perfect words. They need to be open to hearing what doesn’t help. They need to be willing to sit in the discomfort of not knowing what to say.

No one knows what to say. That’s why we need these conversations. Not so we can do it right — but so we can do it better.

If you are the one grieving: you don’t need to minimize it. You don’t need to make others comfortable. You’re allowed to name it, own it, and ask for what you need.

If you love someone who is grieving: you don’t need to fix it. And please don’t ignore it. Gentle check-ins, quiet presence, and space to feel are often more helpful than advice. The griever can lead. You can walk beside.

Reflective Question:  Who in your life could you allow to simply be with their grief, without trying to fix or solve it?

Closing

This Christmas will not be perfectly wrapped and polished for me. It will be hard, messy, tender, and still beautiful in its own way.

Grief, as painful as it is, also gently reminds us to cherish what we do have right now. To slow down. To be with the people we love. To say the things that live on our hearts instead of waiting for “later.”

If you are carrying grief this season — from death, change, estrangement, illness, lost dreams, or quiet heartbreaks — you are not alone. You are not wrong. You are not failing Christmas. You are human. And you deserve support, not solutions.

Grief and joy can coexist —Invite them both to the table.

I hope this helps you feel a little less alone in your grief. And if you would ever like someone to honor and hold space for your grief, please reach out. I am here for you. 🤍