There’s a certain kind of grief that lives inside the holidays, grief for the parents we needed but didn’t have, grief for the childhood we never got to live, and grief for the people we’ve lost along the way.
It’s a grief that doesn’t always show up in tears. Sometimes it shows up in silence. Sometimes in exhaustion. Sometimes in the feeling that something is missing, even when everything looks “fine.” And this season, that grief feels a little heavier for me.
It’s my first holiday without my dad. And somehow the loss lives in every part of me: past, present, and the inner child who still remembers.
The Split Between Two Worlds
One of my clearest holiday memories comes from foster care. I remember sitting in a home where life was safer, warmer, and more stable than anything I’d ever known…
but it wasn’t my home.
I was grateful to be there.
And I missed my mom so deeply it hurt to breathe.
I felt split in two: the girl who belonged in the place she came from, and the girl who was learning to survive in a place she didn’t choose.
I didn’t know you could feel two truths at once. I didn’t know you could be safe and still scared. Grateful and still grieving. Warm and still longing.
Trauma teaches you to choose one feeling at a time to survive. So when grief and gratitude rise together, it can feel like a fault line opening inside your chest.
Back then, I didn’t have the language for it. Now I know: I was living in the tension of both/and long before I understood what that meant.
Grief Follows Us Into Adulthood
Even now, grief finds me in December. It comes as emotional overwhelm, waves that rise without warning. It comes as sadness especially this year, with fresh loss sitting close to the surface. It comes as heaviness, the kind my inner child remembers from holidays that hurt. It comes as tenderness toward the little girl in me who didn’t have anyone to comfort her.
Grief isn’t linear.
It loops.
It circles back.
It brushes up against things we thought we’d outgrown. And during the holidays, it speaks louder than usual.
How Grief Lives in My Body
I feel grief before I can name it. It shows up as exhaustion in my bones, irritation that’s really overwhelm, shutting down, and struggling to be present in moments I want to enjoy. Trauma and grief overlap here.
Trauma says, “I remember what happened.”
Grief says, “I remember what I needed.”
The body stores emotional memory, so even if the mind has moved forward, the nervous system still reacts to the ghosts of what it survived.
The Inner Child Within My Grief
My inner child doesn’t speak in words. She speaks in sensations. A tight chest. A lump in my throat. A longing that sits beneath my ribs. A deep need to rest or slow down.
She remembers Decembers that were lonely. Decembers where worry replaced wonder. Decembers where survival replaced celebration. So now, when grief rises, I don’t silence her. I listen. I honor her. I give her what she never received: gentleness instead of shame.
Why the Holidays Intensify Grief
1. They highlight everything we missed.
Family. Belonging. Stability. Safety.
2. They remind us of people we’ve lost.
Both the recent losses and the ones that still linger decades later.
3. They stir emotional and sensory memories.
Smells, songs, lights, traditions all tied to the emotional world we grew up in.
4. They activate attachment wounds.
Abandonment, longing, loneliness, rejection.
The season magnifies what the heart never fully healed. This isn’t regression. This is remembering.
How I Move Through Grief Now
My grief doesn’t disappear in December, but I’ve learned to meet it with gentleness instead of shame.
Here’s what helps me soften the weight:
• Prayer
God meets me where my pain sits.
• Journaling
Naming my grief gives my heart space to breathe.
• Rest
I honor the exhaustion instead of pushing past it.
• Slowing down
Choosing peace instead of pace.
• Worship music
Letting truth find the places grief still echoes.
• Feeling, then continuing
I allow the wave to come, but I don’t let it drown me. Grief is not something I “get over.” It’s something I learn to move with, something I grow around, something that softens with compassion.
Reflection Questions
What loss or longing feels louder for me during the holidays?
What parts of my childhood grief still live inside my body?
What conflicting emotions do I feel at the same time?
How can my adult self comfort the child within me this season?
What gentle practices help me honor my grief without abandoning myself?
A Prayer for the Grieving Heart
God, You see the grief I carry, both the losses I can name and the ones I never had words for. You see the child in me who longed for warmth, safety, and family. You see the adult in me navigating fresh sorrow this year. Be close to me as I grieve loved ones, the losses are tender, and the ache is new. Hold me in the places where memory stings. Comfort me in the ache of what was and what wasn’t. Help me slow down, rest, and trust that You remain close to the brokenhearted. Turn my heaviness into holy ground.
Amen.