A Christmas Letter To You
You might be reading this on Christmas Eve feeling calm, surrounded by people you love, with a sense that things are steady and warm and more or less as they…
Christmas carries a strange kind of nostalgia – the lights, the music, the rituals, the traditions.
For many people, this brings comfort.
But for just as many, it awakens something far quieter, deeper, and heavier.
Grief.
Sometimes grief with a clear name.
Sometimes grief with no name at all – the kind that lingers in the background like a draft under a door, barely noticeable until December arrives and suddenly the cold hits you all at once.
If Christmas has ever brought tears you didn’t expect, heaviness you couldn’t explain, or a longing you couldn’t quite put words around, you’re not alone.
Your snow globe is responding to something your heart still remembers.
People often imagine grief as something dramatic – deep sobbing, obvious sadness, a clear event.
But grief is quieter than that, and often cleverer.
It shows up in moments like:
Some grief is sharp.
Some grief is soft.
But all grief is valid. That includes yours.
And Christmas has a way of lifting the lid on losses we’ve packed away neatly for the rest of the year.
There was a Christmas when everything looked “fine” on the outside – food cooked, presents wrapped, tree glowing.
But inside, there was a heaviness I couldn’t shake.
Nothing dramatic had happened that day, no particular trigger…
Just a quiet awareness of how different things were from the life I once imagined.
A sense of something missing.
That’s the thing about grief: it doesn’t always announce itself.
Sometimes it simply sits beside you, silently reminding you of all the versions of your life you’ve lived – and the ones you didn’t.
Because Christmas is reflective by nature, this time of year always pulls us to look back.
It reminds us of:
Christmas doesn’t create grief.
It simply brushes the dust off the things we’ve learned to carry quietly.
Sometimes the shake is big – an anniversary, a memory, an empty space in a family photo.
Sometimes the shake is tiny – a smell, a song, a remark, a tradition that feels different this year.
But the nervous system doesn’t measure the size of the moment. The size doesn’t matter.
It measures the meaning.
That’s why grief during Christmas often feels:
The world is shouting “Be Merry!”
Meanwhile, grief is whispering, “I’m still here.”
These aren’t fixes.
They’re kindnesses.
1. Let your grief be part of the room, not the enemy
You don’t have to hide it, fight it, or force it into a neat shape.
Grief softens when it’s acknowledged.
2. Create one tiny ritual
A candle.
A photo.
A toast.
A moment of silence.
A walk.
Something that honours what you’ve loved and lost, without overwhelming you.
3. Give yourself permission to step away from the noise
Grief is loud in silence, but silence is also where healing breathes.
A short break, a quiet room, a breath of cold air – these small pauses help the snow settle.
4. Let love in, even if it feels different now
Grief doesn’t mean joy is forbidden.
You’re allowed to feel two things at once: sadness and warmth, longing and gratitude.
There is no “right way” to do Christmas with grief.
There is only your way.
A Gentle Reminder
If grief shows up this Christmas – whether it’s for a person, a future, a past version of yourself, or a life that changed unexpectedly – it doesn’t mean you’re failing at being festive.
It means you’re human.
It means you’ve loved deeply.
It means you carry memories worth remembering.
And you don’t have to carry them alone.
This is Part 4 of the Snow Globe Series.
Next, we’ll take a look at Burnout & the December Crash – why it hits so hard, and what you can do to soften the fall.
If you’d like a calm, safe space to talk through grief or invisible loss this season, I offer a free introductory session. No pressure — just support, warmth, and room for your snow to settle.
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