There’s a moment every December when the world starts to sparkle - lights in windows, music spilling from shops, the smell of pine and cinnamon in the air. But for many people, that sparkle catches on something painful. The absence of someone who used to be here. The sound of laughter that feels both comforting and bittersweet.
I remember that first Christmas without my grandparents. Everything looked the same, but nothing felt right. We kept the traditions, made the same food, even watched the same traditional films after dinner - but there was a quiet that hung in the air. A stillness that made me realise how love doesn’t disappear, it just changes shape.
Years later, when I began working for Cruse Bereavement Support, I saw how often people felt the same. Not broken, not lost - just out of sync with a world that that keeps pretending everything’s okay. Grief doesn’t take time off for the holidays. It simply waits for permission to be included.
The invisible weight of the festive season
There’s a certain pressure that comes with December - to be grateful, sociable, full of joy. You tell yourself to “get through it” or “make it nice for everyone else,” but inside, you might feel like you’re moving through treacle. The small talk at parties feels strange. The carols hit differently. Even the smallest things - writing a card, hearing an old song - can open the door to memories you weren’t ready for.
Grief has its own rhythm, and it doesn’t care what the calendar says. One day you might feel okay; the next, taken aback by a scent or a photograph. It’s not linear, and it’s not wrong. Yet because society doesn’t leave much room for sadness at Christmas, many people carry it quietly - smiling for the photos, holding it all together so no one else feels awkward.
If that’s you this year, please know there’s nothing wrong with how you feel. You’re not spoiling anyone’s fun. You’re just human, trying to make space for love that no longer has a place to go.
Small ways to include the ones we miss
You don’t have to avoid your grief to get through the holidays. Sometimes what helps most is giving it a gentle place to rest. These small acts can turn pain into presence:
Light a candle at the table or on the mantelpiece. It doesn’t have to be a big gesture - just a quiet acknowledgement that they mattered, and still do.
Write a letter to them - what you wish you could say, or what you’ve learned since they left. It can be comforting to imagine their response, or to picture them proud of the life you’re building.
Keep one tradition and release another. You might still bake their favourite cake, but skip the film that feels too hard this year. It’s okay to make new memories alongside the old ones.
Say their name out loud. Tell a story about them. Laughter and tears often sit right beside each other - neither cancels out the other.
These small moments don’t erase the pain, but they soften its edges. They remind you that grief isn’t just about what’s gone, but about the love that remains.
The Stillness beneath it all
There’s a quiet awareness that sometimes appears in the middle of grief – a kind of calm that doesn’t need fixing. It’s not comfort exactly, more like a soft recognition that you’re still here. Breathing. Living. Carrying love forward in new ways.
When I sit with clients who are grieving, I often see this moment arrive unexpectedly. It might be a slow exhale after weeks of tension, or the first small smile when they talk about a memory. It’s the part of us that knows healing isn’t about forgetting - it’s about making room for love and loss to exist side by side.
Maybe your stillness looks like a morning walk, when the air feels crisp and quiet. Or sitting with a cup of tea by the tree lights, noticing that even with tears in your eyes, something inside you feels steady enough to keep going.
Let this year end gently
You don’t have to make this season perfect. You don’t have to hide your sadness to deserve joy. The reality is, grief and gratitude often travel together. Missing someone is just another way of loving them.
So if your Christmas feels quieter this year, let it. If you cry while wrapping gifts, that’s okay. If you laugh at a memory and then feel guilty, remember that both can be true. The people we’ve lost don’t live on in how much we suffer - they live on in how much we care, and how we keep finding ways to love in their absence.
As you move through the days ahead, I hope you find small moments of peace: a few minutes where you actually feel okay, a song that brings warmth instead of ache, a memory that makes you smile. Love is still here. It just looks different now.