The holidays after loss feel different.
They arrive with lights and music and memories — and with a subtle pressure to feel festive, grateful, joyful. When you’re grieving, that pressure can feel suffocating. Even if you love this season. Even if part of you still longs for the magic of it.
Last year, Christmas came painfully close to losing my sister, Jordy. And while grief was the loudest presence in the room, it wasn’t the only thing I was carrying.
I was also still recovering from surgery — moving slowly, thinking through fog, feeling the kind of deep fatigue that doesn’t lift with rest. My body hadn’t caught up with life yet, and my heart was already broken.
Everything felt heavy.
Honouring Grief During the Holidays: The Year the Tree Didn’t Go Up
Christmas has always been my favourite time of year. It’s sacred to me — childlike, full of wonder, beauty and so many happy childhood memories with my sisters.
I’m the type of person who starts playing Christmas music November 1 and starts putting up my tree the first weekend in November. I love giving myself as much time as possible to sit in the glow of it — evenings in my living room with the lights on, ornaments sparkling, the whole space feeling warm and alive.
Even though I now celebrate Christmas surrounded by palm trees and sunshine instead of the grey skies and snow of Canada, that glow brings me feelings of home. It’s familiar, comforting and magical.
Last year, I couldn’t do it.
The tree stayed in its box.
Between grief and physical recovery, I didn’t have the strength — emotionally or physically — to take on a nine-foot tree and everything it represents. There was no debate, no inner negotiation. It simply wasn’t possible.
And that absence carried its own quiet sadness.
This Year, I Listened to What Was Possible
This year felt different — not easy, not light — but different.
November 1 rolled around and the Christmas music started playing – but the thought of putting up my tree gave me anxiety! A couple of weeks ago though, I started to notice a small, persistent longing. Not to “do Christmas properly,” but to invite a little bit of light back into the room. I knew I still didn’t have the capacity for the full ritual.
So I chose something smaller.
Instead of putting up the entire tree, I set up just the top. It’s the perfect height for a table tree. That was all my heart and body had room for — and it was enough.
I figured out a way to get the tree top into the stand, and beside it, I created a small memorial for Jordy.
The centrepiece of the tree, the only real ornament, is the one I ordered last year — one for all four sisters.
It says Sisters Forever.
I placed Jordy’s ashes next to the tree, surrounded by cards from family. What could have felt like a compromise became something sacred — a Christmas corner that held love, memory, and tenderness.
Every time I turn on the lights, something in me softens.
Not because I’m “moving on.”
But because I’m honouring what’s still true.
When Grief and Joy Share the Same Space
Grief isn’t linear.
It doesn’t arrive, peak, and then politely leave. Especially around the holidays, it can move in waves — joy rising one moment, ache following close behind. And often, they exist together.
My little Christmas tree reminds me of something important: grief doesn’t cancel joy. It deepens it – if you allow it to.
Joy becomes more tender. More fragile. More real.
Turning on the lights doesn’t ‘fix’ anything in me, rather it softens my heart a little. And that softening matters more than any attempt to feel cheerful or festive on cue.
What My Body Was Carrying
As the season unfolds, I’m noticing something else.
Every time I turn on the Christmas tree, I feel more grounded; my breath slows. My shoulders drop. My chest feels less tight. Nothing too dramatic – just enough to notice.
Grief lives in the body.
It shows up as heaviness in the limbs, tension in the shoulders and back, shallow breathing, disrupted sleep. It can increase pain and inflammation, trigger flare-ups, and deepen fatigue. When the heart is carrying sorrow, the body often holds it too.
Last year, between grief and surgery recovery, my nervous system never truly settled. Everything felt loud and heavy inside, even when the room was quiet.
This year, the smallest comforts make a big difference.
How Small Rituals Support the Body During the Holidays
Warm light.
Familiar scent.
Gentle, intentional touch.
A ritual that asks nothing in return.
These aren’t indulgences. They’re signals of safety.
When the nervous system feels overwhelmed — as it often does during grief — it responds best to simplicity. Not to pressure. Not to productivity. But to small cues that say, you’re allowed to slow down now.
Creating a small, sacred corner in my home helps my body relax. So does warmth on my chest and shoulders. So does taking a moment to slow my breath instead of pushing through the day.
Healing doesn’t come from grand gestures. It comes from choosing less — and choosing it kindly.
If You’re Grieving This Holiday Season
If the holidays feel heavy, or tender, or strangely quiet — you’re not alone.
You don’t have to do it all to honour the season. You don’t have to recreate traditions exactly as they once were. And you don’t have to explain your choices to anyone.
Grief has weight — emotional, physical, spiritual. Supporting your body through it is not a luxury. It’s part of healing.
This year, let small rituals carry you. Light a candle. Hold a warm drink. Soften your breath. Create a moment that feels safe enough to rest in.
Honour what hurts. And honour what still glows.
That is enough.
If your body feels tense or heavy this season, warmth and gentle touch can help. Our balm and Gua Sha tools were made for moments like this.
Wishing you comfort and joy this holiday season.
Jaime
My address is in canada
apologies