When “Happy Holidays” Hurts: Grieving in a Season That Won’t Slow Down

When the World Says “Be Merry” and Your Heart Says “Absolutely Not”

The holidays are supposed to be “the most wonderful time of the year,” right?

Unless they’re not.

For a lot of people, the weeks between mid-November and early January are not twinkling lights and cozy mugs. They’re landmines. Empty chairs. Forced cheer. Old wounds. The ache of what used to be, what never was, or what will never be again.

If you’re grieving this season, whether anyone can see it or not, this is for you.

You are not broken.
You are not failing the holidays.
You are a human being carrying love that has nowhere easy to go.

Let’s talk about that.

Grief Doesn’t Care That It’s December

Grief does not look at the calendar and say, “Oh, sorry, I’ll step aside for Christmas, Hanukkah, Solstice, New Year’s.”

It shows up:

When the first Christmas song hits in the grocery store and your chest tightens.
When you pull out decorations and find their handwriting on an old box.
When group texts start filling with family plans you can’t…or don’t want to…join.
When everyone posts matching pajamas and “blessed” photos and you’re just trying to remember to eat.

Grief around the holidays might be:

Death-loss grief – someone you love died, whether last month or 20 years ago.
Estrangement grief – you’re still alive, they’re still alive, but there is distance, conflict, or no-contact.
Ambiguous grief – dementia, addiction, mental illness, chronic illness; the person you knew is changed but not gone.
Anticipatory grief – you see an ending coming and feel it ahead of time.
Non-death losses – divorce, breakup, infertility, job loss, financial collapse, lost community, lost faith.
Collective grief – war, political violence, climate fear, attacks on your community or identity.

The holidays don’t erase any of this. They just put a glittery frame around it and tell you to smile.

The Pressure to Perform “Holiday Spirit”

One of the cruelest parts of this season is the performance expectation.

“You’re still coming, right?”
“Don’t be a downer!”
“They wouldn’t want you to be sad.”
“But it’s Christmas. For the kids.”
“You should be over it by now.”

Grief moves at the speed of love, not the pace of other people’s comfort.

You are not obligated to:

Pretend you’re okay.
Sit at tables that are unsafe for your body or soul.
Keep traditions that tear you open instead of hold you.

You are allowed to:

Opt out.
Leave early.
Change your mind.
Lower the bar.
Do this year differently than last year.

Building a Different Kind of Holiday: Grief-Honoring, Not Grief-Erasing

If the old script doesn’t fit, you’re allowed to write a new one.

Here are some ways to shape the season around who and how you are right now.

1. Name the Reality Out Loud

Even if it’s just to yourself:

“This holiday season is hard because ____________.”

Fill in the blank honestly:

“my dad died.”
“my family is not safe for me.”
“my body has changed and I don’t recognize myself.”
“we can’t afford what we used to.”
“the world feels on fire.”

Naming it doesn’t make it worse. It takes the monster out from under the bed and turns on a light.

You can also say this to trusted people:

“I want to be honest that this season is really tender for me. I might be quieter/less available/need to cancel sometimes.”

If they can’t handle that truth, that’s about their capacity, not your worth.

2. Create Altars, Not Just Decorations

Holiday decor often tries to smooth grief over with sparkle.

Ritual can do something different: give grief a place to live.

You might:

Set a small altar with photos, a candle, an object that belonged to them, or something that represents what you’re grieving.
Light a candle and say their name before a meal or at a specific time of day.
Write a letter to the person you miss and place it under the tree, by the menorah, on your altar, or tucked into a book.
Keep one ornament or symbol that is just for your grief—something that says, “I remember.”

This isn’t about “letting go.” It’s about letting the love have a shape.

3. Adjust Traditions Without Apologizing

Traditions are supposed to serve the living. If they don’t, they can be changed.

Possible adjustments:

Scale down: smaller meal, fewer events, one tradition instead of ten.
Shift locations: maybe you don’t host this year, or you skip the house that holds the hardest memories.
Time-bound: “I’ll come for an hour, and then I’m leaving.”
Create a “one thing” rule: pick one thing you can handle and let the rest go.

You are not a bad parent, partner, or friend for protecting your nervous system.

4. Make Room for Mixed Feelings

Grief is not just sadness. It’s often:

Relief and sorrow.
Anger and gratitude.
Numbness and longing.
Laughter in the middle of tears.

You might genuinely enjoy a moment, good food, a silly joke, a pretty sky, and then feel guilty for not being sad enough.

Here’s the truth: your joy does not betray your grief.
Your laughter does not cancel your love.
Both can exist in the same hour, the same room, the same body.

5. Anchor Yourself with Tiny, Repeatable Practices

Grand plans usually collapse under holiday chaos. Micro-rituals are more realistic.

A few options:

Morning check-in: three breaths, hand on heart, “How am I actually right now?”
Daily grief moment: 5 minutes to cry, stare out a window, write a few lines, or sit with a photo.
Body care rule: one glass of water, one meal with protein, one stretch each day, even if everything else is falling apart.
Sensory comfort: a certain scent, blanket, playlist, or tea you use as a “this is my safe island” signal.

Small is not trivial. Small is how your nervous system knows it’s still worth taking care of you.

When Your Grief Is Invisible or “Not Approved”

Not all grief gets casseroles and sympathy cards.

You might be mourning:

A relationship your family never recognized.
An estranged parent you “should” hate but still miss.
A pregnancy no one knew about.
A community you had to leave for safety.
Parts of yourself that were never allowed to exist.

If nobody else is validating that grief, I will:

Your loss is real enough to hurt.
It is real enough to deserve tenderness.
You don’t need a death certificate to justify your pain.

Create your own witness if you have to: a journal, an altar, a trusted friend, a therapist, a support group, a spiritual practice. Let at least one place in your life say, “Yes. This mattered.”

Boundaries for the Season (Even With People You Love)

Grief narrows your bandwidth. The holidays try to rip it wide open.

Some ready-to-use boundary lines:

“I’m coming, but I might leave early if I get overwhelmed.”
“I’m not up for hosting this year.”
“I’m skipping gifts; my energy and budget are low.”
“I’m not talking about [topic] today.”
“I know you mean well, but ‘they’re in a better place’ doesn’t help me. Could you just say ‘I’m here with you’ instead?”

You don’t need a PowerPoint presentation to justify any of that.

If someone cannot respect your limits, you are allowed to limit your access to them, including during holidays.

If This Is Your First Holiday After a Death

The “firsts” are brutal. First holiday without them. First time you open the box of decorations and their ornament is there. First time their favorite dish is missing from the table.

A few things that might help:

Choose one way to honor them: a toast, a candle, a story, making their favorite food.
Have an exit plan: drive yourself if you can, or have a code phrase with a friend (“I’m tired” means “get me out of here”).
Expect emotional whiplash: you might feel okay and then suddenly demolished. That’s not regression; that’s normal.
Lower the bar: “Survive the day” is a perfectly valid goal.

You don’t have to figure out how every future holiday will look. Just this one.

If It’s Been Years and It Still Hurts

There’s a quiet shame that shows up when grief lasts longer than the world thinks it should.

You might catch yourself thinking:

“It’s been 5/10/20 years. Why does this still hit so hard?”
“People must be tired of hearing about it.”
“I should be over this by now.”

Grief doesn’t follow warranty timelines. Love doesn’t expire, so the ache of love doesn’t either. It changes shape, intensity, and texture…but the fact that it’s still there is not a failure. It’s evidence that this person, this relationship, this loss mattered.

Anniversaries, holidays, and sensory triggers (a certain song, smell, or recipe) can reopen old doors. That doesn’t mean you’re “back at the beginning.” It means another layer is ready to be felt.

Support and Resources If You Need More Than a Blog Post

Sometimes words on a screen are a comfort. Sometimes they’re not enough.

If you’re in acute distress or having thoughts of harming yourself, please reach out now:

In the U.S., you can call or text 988 to connect with the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.
If you’re outside the U.S., search for a local crisis line or emergency service in your country.
If you can’t talk: write a note to someone you trust and send it. “I’m not okay and I need support” is enough.

For ongoing grief support, you might explore:

Local hospice / hospital grief groups – many offer free or low-cost holiday-specific support circles.
Therapists or counselors who specialize in grief, trauma, or illness.
Online grief communities (just be discerning; you want spaces that respect boundaries, diversity, and different timelines of grief).
Books & practices around grief, ritual, and embodiment that help you reconnect with your body as you navigate loss.

And if you’re a person who likes structure, journals, trackers, ritual guides, tools like daily grief logs, prompt journals, or simple printable rituals can give your grief a gentle container during the chaos of the season.

A Blessing for the Difficult Holiday

If no one else says this to you, let it come from here:

May you be allowed to be exactly as you are this season…no brighter, no quieter, no more “together” than you truly feel.

May your love for who and what you’ve lost find safe places to land: in stories, in candles, in tears, in laughter that comes unexpectedly.

May you have at least one person, one room, or one corner of the world where you don’t have to pretend.

May your body be treated as a tender, worthy creature, fed, watered, warmed, and rested as much as this season allows.

And if this year is the year you say, “I can’t do the holidays the old way anymore,”
may that be honored not as a failure, but as a brave act of self-preservation and love.

You are not alone in feeling out of step with the glitter and noise.

Some of us live in the quiet edges…keeping vigil, keeping memory, keeping love.

That is holy work, too.

Rosemary Raven Hearth