As Christmas approaches, I find myself exhausted—not just physically but emotionally. This isn't the typical post-holiday blues; it's a unique weariness that comes from carrying the weight of grief through a season that demands joy and cheer.
I love my family dearly and cherish every moment we spend together. They're not the source of the pressure I feel; they've never placed demands on me that I find burdensome. But here I am, three years after my daughter Texa went ahead to Heaven, still feeling as unprepared for the holly-jolly season as I did that second year without her. (In the first year, I barely counted; shock consumed everything.)
These days, many people in my life either don't know about my loss or have tucked it away into some far corner of their memory. I don't carry my grief like a banner, nor do I expect special treatment because of it. Still, it shapes how I experience everything, especially the holidays.
This third Christmas without Texa is still hard. Every day feels like an uphill climb to show up, smile, engage, and do even the shortened version of holiday traditions. I have to balance keeping my emotions in check with allowing myself to sit quietly in my sacred sorrow, where I find the hope that keeps me moving forward.
Over the years, I've learned a few ways to navigate the holiday season as a grieving parent, and maybe they'll resonate with you, too. First, I remind myself that it's okay to bow out of things I can't face. The world won't end if I say no to an event or skip a tradition.
Communication is another key. I've realized that people can't read my mind, and even those who know my story might forget what I shared last year. Things change and talking honestly about what this year will look like for me is okay.
I've also become more selective about social commitments. Social anxiety is something I never dealt with before loss, but it's part of my life now. I carefully choose what to add to my calendar and let go of guilt about the rest.
Taking care of my body helps, too. Staying hydrated and avoiding overindulgence in holiday treats isn't about calories—it's about keeping my physical well-being steady so my emotions don't spiral.
Most importantly, I build in time for rest and solitude. Whether it's a few minutes every day or an entire day each week, these moments help me recharge and face the inevitable grief waves the season brings.
Even during the difficult moments, I look for glimpses of joy—beautiful memories, kind gestures, and moments of connection. I remind myself this season, like all seasons, will pass. I've survived every day since Texa left us, one breath at a time, and I'll survive this one, too.