Quite a few of you have reached out sharing your hurt and struggle as Christmas draws near. For some of you, it's your first Christmas without that person who made this season and life worthwhile; some of you are farther down the road from it and it still feels like the first; and some of you are looking at the reality that it might be your last. As I sat on the plane ride home yesterday, looking at the millions of tiny Christmas lights thousands of miles below with no internet to respond to each of your messages in the brief moment I had, I was able to think about what I want to say to each of you if I had the time right now to respond to everyone privately (and I wish so much I did). While this is not the same, I hope it is no less helpful to every single one of you who have been generous enough to share your vulnerable heart with me because I see you, I know your hurt, and I am truly in it with you:
I just spent four days in the desert of Arizona, and the thing that continually struck me the most was this one thought: "This doesn't feel or look like Christmas at all to me. But it's beautiful. It's perfect just as it is."
This will be my second Christmas without Griffin here and the third or fourth Christmas that looks nothing like what I thought it would at this point in my life. I was the mom who, from December 1st (and honestly, probably earlier than that most years), was on the endless and impossible pursuit of making every day a festive and joy-filled occasion so my children would grow up with fond memories of the holiday. I stressed endlessly about the food and activities, spent hours searching for the perfect gifts, and decked the halls to the nines. Christmas cookies had to be baked and decorated from scratch, the tree had to be perfect, and the music and movies magical. I cooked the whole traditional meal from scratch wherever possible and with the utmost love and anxiety if it wasn't perfect.
In hindsight, I see very clearly that I was utterly ridiculous, and I knew it even then on some level, but that wouldn't ever stop me. I am woman; hear me roar. That was my MO (and it wasn't just at Christmas; it was every day if I'm being honest).
Then we lost Griffin, and suddenly, the world tilted on its axis, yet somehow kept spinning. I was utterly undone while everyone seemed to be carrying on like nothing happened, like the whole world didn't just crumble and collapse beneath our feet. "Why was everyone still so freaking happy and cared so much about such meaningless things in the big picture," was all I could think.
As I look back, that started long before Griffin was gone. The last three or four Christmases have been forced merriment and unwrapped Amazon boxes that nobody knows who they actually belong to when we open them. The food was subpar to the historical spread I made. The movies became less and less important to watch. The memories were just lucky catches, like chasing fireflies in the summer and hoping you can snag a few.
But do you know? Despite the effort, despite the well-executed plans, despite relinquishing the false sense of control and absurd levels of stress to achieve an expectation that was never attainable....Christmas still came each year. And do you know what else? Christmas was still remarkable, magical, and perfect in its own unique way, every single time.
So to each of you who have reached out to me struggling with this holiday and how little it looks like the Christmases you hold most dear, to those of you who have struggled with how short the magic of the season has fallen from what you usually hope for: take a walk in the desert (literally or metaphorically). You've lost someone who made your world sit correctly and on a level playing field. That breaks you in a way you will never be able to describe to someone who does not know that stark line you try to balance on as you walk between the before and after of them. Let go of your expectations and all you think the holiday should be. Find your W-I-N: what's important now, and keep that in your line of sight and focus as you make it through each day. Dig deep, look closely for those little bursts of light that feel like sunshine on a cold day, and then hold them close.
Christmas is still going to come, and it's going to be challenging and wildly different. If you're sad, be sad. If you feel happy, let that line shine. Let this season be whatever it is because that's precisely what it is supposed to be, even when we don't see the how or why of it. Maybe we had our turn to carry the torch and make all the magic happen, and now it's someone else's, and perhaps that's more than OK. It's still somehow going to be beautiful, even in its painful and lackluster hue. You'll make new memories and traditions you didn't know you needed or wanted.
After so many Christmases that "fell short" by my formerly absurd standards, it's still beautiful and perfect. The many Amazon boxes that sit unwrapped under the tree with nothing but my name on them are now a game we play every Christmas morning where everyone grabs one to open, and then we try to figure out who it belongs to and who it's from. We eat Costco Christmas treats on the years we don't get to the cookies, and they still taste just as delicious. We wear our favorite pj's all morning and live in the lap of comfort instead of photogenic luxury where everything matches and makes sense. I go to other people's homes for the holiday and enjoy with gratitude and deep humility the effort they've poured into their meals and that they made space for us because I know the love, sacrifice, and effort poured into every morsel made. I don't smile when I don't feel like smiling, I don't pretend to love this season the way I used to when I don't, and I don't try to change the set of the stage when it's no longer my turn to carry that load and be the maker of all the magic. I show up and receive all the love and kindness poured into my broken heart, and each year, I am left with nothing but beautiful memories and immense gratitude that someone cared enough to carry me through this season the best way they could. My oldest son still looks at me with a huge grin when we do something even remotely festive and I feel like it should fall short, and he says, "This is the best Christmas ever mom, what are you talking about?!" I see how special and treasured each of those things are because I knew the other side of what it took to make it happen, and now I know what losing it costs. Pain has brought purpose into focus for every little and big thing that comes my way and has given me so much gratitude that I get to keep, hold, and cherish.
So, let this be the evidence and bolster you need right now as you try to navigate this season amid your grief. If you can embrace the now and how different it looks, even in its painful moments; if you can relinquish the false sense of control we are only allowed to keep until it's ripped painfully from our grasp; if you can accept that this is, for whatever reason we can't see (and that's kind of the whole point of this holiday isn't it? Leaning into the things we can't touch, but oh, can we feel it) the part of the story we are supposed to be living in......I promise you, it will be beautiful and still be perfect in its imperfection. Every day, if you look hard enough, something or someone will walk into your chapter, making it so profoundly healing and worthwhile again. Your tribe will still look back at this year and find something special to keep in that placeholder for fond memories we keep safely tucked away in our hearts to pull out in the challenging moments. You'll get through this holiday and year and be better for it in so many ways I cannot begin to share with you. You're going to be OK, and it's OK if you don't feel that yet and that everything looks different, and you don't celebrate it right now. One day, you will.
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