I still remember the first holiday season after I lost someone I loved deeply. The twinkling lights on houses, the cheerful songs in stores, and even the scent of cinnamon in the air all felt unbearably heavy. The contrast between the festive world around me and the emptiness I felt inside was overwhelming. Holidays, for so many of us, are tied to traditions that remind us of those we’ve lost.
Grief during this time isn’t linear; it ebbs and flows. A melody, an ornament, or even a beloved recipe can unlock memories, triggering unexpected emotions. It’s not just sadness—it’s longing, love, and even anger woven into tender moments of remembrance.
I remember the first holiday season after my grandmother passed away. The warmth of her presence was missing, and the silence felt heavier than ever. It taught me that grief doesn’t need to be hidden or fixed. Instead, I learned to create space for it.
One way I did this was by setting aside moments to reflect. Lighting a candle in her memory became our quiet ritual, signaling that it was okay to feel the pangs of sorrow. I also realized the importance of listening—to others and to myself. When someone shared memories with tears in their eyes, I didn’t rush to soothe them. I simply nodded, offering a shoulder to lean on.
During family gatherings, I encouraged open conversations about how everyone was truly feeling. Sometimes this meant pausing the festive music to acknowledge the absence of those we’d lost. Other times, it was about sharing stories that brought laughter and tears in equal measure. Balancing grief and celebration wasn’t easy, but making space for emotions allowed us to connect more deeply.
I remember sitting with a friend once, her hands trembling as she held her coffee mug. The holidays were approaching, but for her, joy felt distant and unreachable. I didn’t know what to say, so I simply listened. As she shared memories of her lost loved one, I nodded, stayed present, and let her words guide the conversation.
What I’ve learned is that grief isn’t about finding the “right” thing to say. Instead:
Listen deeply to their thoughts without interrupting or offering advice.
Reflect emotions by acknowledging their pain: “It sounds like you really miss them.”
Hold space without judgment, even in long silences.
By offering empathy, I gave her room to be heard and loved.
I remember when a close friend lost her father just weeks before the holidays. She seemed weighed down by even the simplest tasks. Instead of asking her what she needed—knowing she might feel overwhelmed to decide—I brought over her favorite homemade soup and told her I’d handle the grocery run that week. Sometimes it’s about stepping in during moments when decision-making feels impossible.
I also helped her wrap gifts for her kids, letting her rest while I worked. Small gestures, like mailing holiday cards or walking someone’s dog, can ease the burden. Supporting others with real action softens their load.
I remember the year after losing my grandmother, when the holidays came around, everything felt different. The warmth of her laughter, the smell of her famous cookies—gone. But then, my mom pulled out her old recipe cards, some smudged with her handwriting, and we baked those cookies together. It was bittersweet, but it brought her presence back into our home.
Honoring traditions keeps the connection alive. Whether it’s setting a place at the table, hanging a special ornament, or telling their favorite stories, these acts give comfort. I find that embracing their memory rather than avoiding it offers healing in ways I never imagined.
Consider giving a small memorial ornament or candle they can use to honor their loved one. Another thoughtful option is an TheirStory Matters Memorial Plaque with an online tribute page. You can preload the online page with pictures and memories for an especially meaningful gift.
I remember when I first sat with a friend grieving during the holidays. Their pain was palpable, and I wanted so badly to say or do the “right” thing. Instead of trying to fix their sadness, I gently encouraged small, healthy actions—steps within their reach. Things like taking a walk outside, even if just for ten minutes, became a moment of fresh air amidst their storm. I suggested journaling thoughts or emotions, not for perfection, but for release. Sometimes, I’d quietly offer them warm tea because the simple act of holding something grounding can provide comfort. Over time, I realized that it wasn’t about monumental actions; it was about consistent, manageable choices. Together, we explored creative outlets, like sketching or baking, which allowed grief to ebb and flow naturally. These small habits became anchors, not solutions, but reminders that healing could coexist with pain.
I once sat across from a close friend who had lost her father a year earlier. The holidays were approaching, and while I assumed she might be ready to celebrate again, her quiet sadness told another story. I learned that grief doesn’t follow a schedule. Each person moves through it at their own pace, and that’s okay.
The urge to “cheer someone up” or encourage them to move forward faster can unintentionally invalidate their feelings. Instead, I remind myself to listen without rushing to fix. If they’re reminiscing, I let them. If they need space, I offer it.
I remember the first holiday season after losing someone I loved—it felt impossibly heavy. The traditions we once shared only highlighted their absence. So, I decided to create new rituals, ones that allowed me to honor them without the ache of unmet expectations. Lighting a candle at the dinner table became a quiet way to feel their presence. I started writing letters to them, reflecting on memories or what I wished I could say.
Sometimes, I’d bake their favorite pie or listen to music they loved, letting those small acts become a bridge between then and now. Adding these rituals didn’t erase the grief, but it shifted something inside me, turning pain into connection. A friend shared her way of planting a tree every year, watching it grow as a living reminder. Whether it’s giving back to a cause they cared about or setting aside time to journal, these moments create space for loss to exist—but with love alongside it.
I remember one holiday season when a close friend lost her father. I wanted to be there for her, but I found myself emotionally drained. That’s when I realized I couldn’t pour from an empty cup. I began giving myself permission to take breaks. Whether it was going for a walk or sitting quietly with a cup of tea, those moments recharged me.
I also learned to set boundaries. If I needed rest, I kindly let others know. Journaling became my outlet, helping me process my own emotions. Supporting someone doesn’t mean neglecting my own needs; it’s about balancing both.
I remember the tender ache of watching someone close to me struggle with overwhelming grief. There was a moment, during a quiet conversation, when their eyes hinted at the weight they carried alone. I didn’t want to overstep, but I knew they might need more help than I could give. That realization taught me something important: timing and approach matter.
First, I waited for a calm moment, not when emotions were raw or tempers quick. Then, I gently shared my concerns: “I think speaking to someone might help you untangle everything you’re feeling.” I framed it as caring, not criticism. Suggesting options—grief counselors or even support groups—helped ease the idea. I emphasized how healing isn’t weakness but strength.
I remember sitting in a room full of people after losing someone I loved deeply, and yet, I felt completely alone. Grief has a way of isolating us, but it wasn’t until I let myself lean into the embrace of my community that I began to feel a glimmer of relief. Friends and family became my lifeline—not because they always had the right words but because they were simply there.
Listening ears: Sometimes all I needed was someone to listen without judgment.
Shared stories: Hearing others’ memories created a sense of connection to what was lost.
Rituals together: A small gathering for a favorite meal or holiday tradition brought comfort.
It was their presence, not perfection, that reminded me I wasn’t grieving alone.