Grief Sucked Out The Ass This Christmas As Usual
Since my mom, Iris, passed away six years ago, Christmas has become a season I dread more than I anticipated. If I’m being brutally honest, I stopped genuinely enjoying the holidays long before her death. Still, as long as she was here, her presence softened the edges of my cynicism. Her love for Christmas made the season bearable, even when I wasn’t feeling festive. I only put up with it because of the children.
Iris adored Christmas. She had this way of transforming the holiday into something magical, a season brimming with joy, light, and warmth. The house would glow with strings of lights, the air filled with the scent of her homemade cookies. She had a knack for finding the perfect gifts—not the expensive or flashy ones, but the ones that made you feel truly seen and loved. Christmas was Iris’s canvas, and she painted it with love and care every year. Now, without her, the season feels like an empty shell.
The Hole Grief Leaves Behind
Grief during the holidays is its own kind of beast. It’s not just sadness; it’s a hollow ache that magnifies everything missing. Christmas carols feel like a cruel joke, and traditions that once brought joy now feel like going through the motions. Decorating a tree or hanging stockings—things Iris loved—feel more like chores than celebrations.
I’ve learned that grief doesn’t take time off for the holidays. In fact, it seems to sharpen around them, as if the universe is hell-bent on reminding me of what I’ve lost. Every commercial, every jingle, every cheery social media post feels like salt in the wound.
The Guilt of Not Enjoying
One of the hardest parts about grieving during Christmas is the guilt. There’s this societal expectation to be cheerful and merry, to buy into the idea that this is “the most wonderful time of the year.” But I’m not cheerful. I’m not merry. And trying to fake it feels like betrayal—to myself, to my mom, and to the truth of my feelings.
For the past six years, I’ve wrestled with whether to even celebrate Christmas. Part of me feels like abandoning it altogether—skipping the decorations, ignoring the carols, and treating it like any other day. But there’s another part of me that clings to the traditions Iris loved. It’s as if keeping them alive keeps a piece of her alive too.
The Complicated Comfort of Memory
Grief has a funny way of distorting time. Six years feels like yesterday and a lifetime ago all at once. Every Christmas, I find myself replaying memories of Iris in my mind, like a favorite movie I can’t stop watching. I think about her laugh as she unwrapped gifts, her excitement when she saw the lights we strung up together, and the way her face lit up when she watched me open a present she’d chosen with care. These memories are bittersweet. They’re comforting, but they also remind me of what I’ll never have again.
Navigating the Holidays Alone
I’ve tried different ways to cope with Christmas grief. Some years, I’ve leaned into it—setting up a tree, playing Iris’s favorite carols, and baking her recipes. Other years, I’ve avoided the holiday entirely, retreating into books, TV, or work to distract myself. Neither approach is perfect, and neither makes the pain go away. But I’ve come to realize that’s okay.
This year, I tried something different. Instead of focusing on the holiday itself, I focused on Iris. I spent Christmas Eve flipping through photo albums, laughing at her silly holiday outfits and crying over how much I miss her. I lit a candle in her honor and played her favorite version of “Silent Night.” It didn’t make the grief disappear, but it made it feel less overwhelming.
Allowing Grief to Exist
One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned over the past six years is to stop fighting grief. It’s not something you can “fix” or “move on” from, especially around the holidays. Grief is messy and unpredictable, and it doesn’t follow a timeline. It’s okay to be sad, to cry, to feel like Christmas sucks. It doesn’t mean you’re broken or that you’re failing to “heal.” It just means you loved someone deeply and miss them fiercely.
Finding Meaning in the Mess
This Christmas wasn’t merry or bright, but it wasn’t all bad either. Grief sucked, as it always does, but it also reminded me of how much Iris meant to me. The fact that I still feel this deeply six years later is a testament to her impact on my life. And maybe that’s the silver lining of grief—it’s a reflection of love that refuses to fade.
I don’t have a tidy conclusion or a lesson to tie this post together with a bow. Grief isn’t like that. But I will say this: If you’re grieving this holiday season, you’re not alone. It’s okay to feel like Christmas sucks. It’s okay to miss someone so much it hurts. And it’s okay to celebrate or not celebrate in whatever way feels right to you.
As for me, I’ll keep navigating Christmas one year at a time, carrying Iris’s memory with me and figuring out what this season means without her. It’s not easy, but it’s the best I can do.
