The holidays are a tapestry woven with threads of joy and threads of sorrow.
Both shimmer in their own way, both tug at the heart, and both have a place in the story of who we are.
When I think back to Christmas Eve as a young girl, I can still feel the cold air on my cheeks as I ran up the steps to my grandma’s house, dressed in my nicest little outfit while my parents carried gifts behind me. The moment that door opened, I was greeted by a wall of warmth and laughter layered over conversation, cousins shouting in excitement, a house overflowing with family. It felt like walking straight into a hug.
Grandpa’s appetizers filled the kitchen with the smell of comfort and tradition. Alvin and the Chipmunks played on the record player with that nostalgic pop and crackle that only vinyl can give. Grandma’s tree glowed with colorful lights and enough tinsel to destroy a vacuum in record time. Aunts, uncles, cousins from out of state, it was a reunion of love, chaos, and belonging. Everyone opened gifts at once, tearing paper and shouting thank-yous. It was magic.
And when the record wasn’t spinning, music still filled the house. My uncle played guitar; one year my mom’s dad brought his fiddle and the two of them played together while the rest of us sang. Those nights stretched long and full, and we didn’t head home until late, our hearts full and our faces sore from smiling. I looked forward to it every single year.
But time, as it does, changed things. People got older. People moved. Some traditions slipped quietly into memory. And tonight… tonight is quiet. Too quiet. I sit here with two of my three children, trying to hold the holiday spirit together for them, but there’s an ache sitting heavy in my chest. One of my kids can’t be here this Christmas, and even though we can call and FaceTime, the truth is it’s not the same.
Not being able to hug him, hear his laugh in the room, or hand him his gifts in person has been its own kind of heartbreak. It’s a different kind of grief… the kind that comes from loving someone so deeply that their absence feels loud, even when you’re still connected. It’s missing someone who is alive and loved and still part of your world, but not physically sitting in their place at the table.
I thought losing my dad would be the hardest holiday change to navigate and it was, for a long time. But having a child away for Christmas… that pain surprises me. It catches in my throat. It stretches across the whole day, even through the joy of the kids who are here. It’s one of the hardest things I’ve had to feel.
And yet… I know I’m not the only one who feels this tug-of-war of emotions during the holidays. Many people are grieving a loved one. Some are navigating divorce or broken family traditions. Some have empty chairs at the table for reasons that feel unbearable. Some simply don’t feel joy right now, no matter how many lights are strung or cookies are baked.
To anyone carrying that weight: I want you to know it’s okay.
It’s okay to feel sorrow during a season that celebrates joy. It’s okay if the holidays look different this year. It’s okay if you need to cry, or sit quietly with your thoughts, or take a moment alone. That isn’t selfish. It’s human.
And it’s okay to feel both.
Both grief and love.
Both sadness and gratitude.
Both ache and wonder.
God sees you. He knows your pain. He sits with you in the heaviness and comforts you in the quiet moments when no one else can. You don’t have to pretend this season is perfect. You don’t have to feel joyful just because the calendar says you should.
You’re allowed to hold joy in one hand and sorrow in the other.
You’re allowed to feel the beauty of the season while honoring the grief that still lingers.
Today, I’m learning that Christmas can hold both.
If this season hurts, I’m right there with you. We don’t have to pretend everything is perfect. We don’t have to show up with a smile that doesn’t match what’s going on inside. But we can show up honestly, love deeply, and keep moving forward one breath, one prayer, one holiday at a time.
And if no one has told you today: you’re doing the best you can, and that is enough.
XO – Lish
