Carrying Grief During the Christmas Season: A Season of Shadows and Light
Christmas is often painted as a season of unshakable joy—every carol, every commercial, every Hallmark movie insists that this is a time for celebration. But for those of us who are grieving, the brightness of the season can feel blinding, a painful contrast to the quiet shadows we carry. The truth is, Christmas doesn’t erase grief. It highlights it.
This is my ninth Christmas without my mom. She loved this season—the music, the baking, and especially turning our home into a cozy, twinkling wonderland. That first Christmas without her felt hollow. I tried to keep the traditions alive, but without her, the magic was gone. The house had only a simple tree that year, its bare branches and dim lights magnifying the emptiness in ways I couldn’t escape. Christmas didn’t feel like Christmas. It felt like loss.
Nine years later, her absence still lingers in this season, but I’ve come to see Christmas differently. I’ve learned that this time of year isn’t just for celebration—it’s for longing. Longing for connection, for restoration, for the light that breaks through even the darkest nights.
The Weight We Don’t Share
One of the hardest parts of grieving during Christmas isn’t just the ache itself—it’s carrying that ache quietly. You see the joy in others’ eyes, hear it in their laughter, and you don’t want to dim their light with your sorrow. So you hold it inside, trying to make space for their happiness, even when it feels like there’s no space left for you.
I’ve felt that weight—the effort to keep the pain invisible, not because it’s shameful, but because I didn’t want to add to anyone else’s burdens. Grief, however, has a way of sneaking through the cracks, even when we try to bury it. The sparseness of a tree, an empty seat at the table, a carol that catches you off guard—all these small things remind you of what’s missing. It’s exhausting to pretend you’re fine when the truth is, you’re not.
But here’s the thing: you don’t have to pretend with God. If there’s one thing this season tells us, it’s that He doesn’t shy away from our mess. The very name Emmanuel—God with us—reminds us that He steps into our pain, not as an observer, but as someone who meets us in the middle of it.
Your Grief Has a Place Here
If you’ve ever felt like grief doesn’t belong in Christmas, I want to tell you something I’ve learned: your grief is exactly what this season is about. Christmas isn’t for the ones who have it all together; it’s for the broken, the weary, and the waiting. It’s for those of us standing in the shadows, longing for the light.
The very first Christmas was born out of longing. Mary and Joseph, tired and displaced, didn’t have a festive home or a glowing tree—they had a stable, dark and cold. And yet, it was in that imperfect, messy moment that hope entered the world. Christmas is about light breaking into darkness, not replacing it, but transforming it. That means your grief doesn’t have to stay hidden. It belongs here, right alongside the joy.
A Different Kind of Christmas
Letting go of the idea of a “perfect Christmas” was one of the hardest lessons I’ve learned, but it’s also been the most freeing. I’ve stopped chasing the picture-perfect holiday I see in movies and embraced something quieter, something more honest. For me, that means leaning into the simple traditions I shared with my mom—baking cookies while Christmas movies played in the background. It wasn’t about the cookies or the films, but the warmth of her laughter, the way the house felt alive with joy, and the unspoken reminder that love often lives in the smallest, most ordinary moments. Now, even though she’s gone, I hold onto those traditions—not because they erase the ache, but because they honor it. In their own quiet way, they remind me that light and love can still be found, even when the season feels dim.
A Gift in the Shadows
If you’re grieving this Christmas, I won’t tell you it’s easy, and I won’t tell you to “find the silver lining.” Instead, I’ll tell you what I’ve come to believe: grief and joy can hold hands. Missing someone doesn’t mean you can’t find moments of peace. Feeling sorrow doesn’t mean you can’t experience a quiet hope.
Christmas doesn’t demand that we leave our grief at the door. It invites us to bring it inside, to lay it down in the presence of the One who came to carry it with us. That’s what this season is about—not ignoring the shadows, but trusting that the light will meet us there.
Wherever you are this Christmas—in the brightness of celebration or the quiet weight of grief—know that you’re not alone. Emmanuel is with us, not just in the songs and the candles, but in the silence, the tears, and the longing. That’s the gift of Christmas: light that doesn’t just shine on us, but through us, even when the night feels endless.
May you find light in the shadows and peace in the waiting,
Paul