Outside, everything signals celebration. Lights blink. Carols repeat. Shop windows insist on cheer.
Inside some homes, it’s heavier than that.
For some of us, this season doesn’t feel wonderful. It feels tiring. Or lonely. Or unexpectedly sharp. And when you’re not okay at a time when happiness seems mandatory, that mismatch can be its own quiet burden.
When grief shares the same space
Grief doesn’t move in a straight line. Even people living under the same roof can carry the same loss very differently.
I saw this in my own home.
After we lost our son in May 2000, the holidays changed. My husband, still raw in his grief, dreaded Christmas. The lights felt loud. The noise felt like too much. Every celebration pointed to the absence we were learning to live with.
I was different. I didn’t expect that.
Despite the ache, I found comfort in the season. The glow of the tree. The familiar rituals. Small, ordinary moments that reminded me warmth hadn’t disappeared entirely.
Neither of us was wrong.
What we had to learn—slowly—was that one person’s need for quiet doesn’t cancel out another person’s need for light. Grief can look like withdrawal. It can also look like holding on. Living together meant making space for both, without explanation.
What the season leaves out
The version of the holidays we see most often is tidy. Full tables. Easy laughter. Everything in place.
Real life is less polished.
There’s the empty chair no one names but everyone notices.
There’s the quiet anxiety over money, time, or energy already stretched thin.
There’s the fatigue that comes from a long year, followed by a season that asks for more.
For some, December isn’t joyful. It’s something to endure.
A different kind of measure
There’s an assumption that we should be “on” during the holidays. Present. Cheerful. Grateful.
I’ve learned that sometimes doing enough simply means getting through the day. Sometimes it means stepping back. Sometimes it means choosing rest over tradition.
That doesn’t make the season smaller. It just makes it real.
Not everything needs to be bright
If this season feels heavy, I hope you’re gentle with yourself. You don’t owe anyone a performance. And you don’t need to feel guilty if moments of light still appear. Grief has room for both.
And if you’re doing okay, it helps to notice the people who aren’t saying much. The quiet often carries weight.
Sometimes kindness is patience. Sometimes it’s noticing. Sometimes it’s letting someone be where they are.
That, too, is enough.
