Burned Rolls and Broken Hearts: Grieving Through the Holidays

There’s a picture of my mom I keep coming back to-she’s smiling broadly at the camera while my little niece runs past her. My mom smiled with her whole face- it was big, warm, and always genuine. It’s not a Christmas photo, but somehow it feels like one. Every December, when the lights go up and the world leans into warmth and togetherness, that picture finds its way back to me. She passed away eleven days before Christmas, and ever since, the season has held both a soft glow and a quiet ache. That laugh, caught in a summer moment, reminds me that joy and grief often share the same space.

Grief doesn’t follow the calendar. It doesn’t skip December or stay silent while carols play. It shows up right in the middle of the tinsel and “Merry Christmas!” greetings - uninvited, raw, and human. When I lost my mom, the world around me didn’t stop. Stores stayed packed, kids kept counting down to Santa, and every commercial still insisted this was “the most wonderful time of the year.” But when you’re grieving, it can feel like walking through a snow globe that someone keeps shaking. Everything looks beautiful, but inside, you’re just trying to find your footing while the world spins around you.

There’s something uniquely hard about loss during the holidays. It’s supposed to be a season of presence, but for many, it’s defined by absence. The empty chair at the table. The recipe that doesn’t taste quite right because the person who made it best isn’t there to add the magic (or, in my mom’s case, too much butter and not enough measuring). The card you don’t get to send. People mean well when they say things like, “She’d want you to be happy,” or “At least she’s at peace.” But sometimes, I’d trade all the peace in the world just to hear her laugh while she burned the rolls again because she got distracted talking.

What I’ve learned, though, is that grief doesn’t erase love, it deepens it. It stretches it beyond the physical world. My mom’s not here to unwrap presents or fuss over the tree, but she’s still in every bit of love I give. That’s what grief really is - love that hasn’t found its landing place yet.

If you’re grieving this holiday season, hear me: you have permission to feel whatever you feel. You don’t have to “be strong” every minute. You don’t have to decorate the house if it feels too heavy. You don’t have to attend every event or fake a smile for the family photo. You can skip the party, cry through the carols, or sit quietly with your cocoa and your memories. You are not ruining Christmas - you’re surviving it. And that’s sacred work. The holidays bring pressure to perform happiness. But sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is admit that you’re struggling. When you do, it gives others permission to be real too. That honesty (especially in a season that often demands perfection) is its own kind of light.

Grief doesn’t vanish, but it evolves. Over time, I’ve found ways to make room for both joy and sorrow, to let them coexist. Each year, I light a candle for my mom. It’s quiet, simple, and grounding. That flicker reminds me she’s still part of the story. I keep one tradition and create one new one. I say her name, tell the stories, laugh about the trauma her choice in books caused my sisters friends. Keeping her memory alive is a form of celebration. And I give myself grace. Some years are heavy, others surprisingly light. Both are okay.

Grief isn’t a sign you’ve failed to move on - it’s proof you’ve loved deeply!

If you know someone grieving this season, remember: you don’t have to fix it. You don’t need the perfect words. Just show up. Bring soup. Send a card. Sit with them in the quiet. I’ll never forget the friend who didn’t try to cheer me up that first Christmas without my mom. She just showed up with a candle and said, “I thought you might need a little light.” No speeches, no platitudes, just kindness. That was enough.

Each December since losing my mom, I’ve realized that grief has this way of stripping away the fake sparkle and revealing what really matters: connection, compassion, remembering. The ache is still there, but it sits beside a gratitude I didn’t expect. Grief has softened me, sharpened me, made me notice things I used to rush past, like the way laughter sounds different when it’s earned through tears, the way love lingers in the smallest traditions.

So yes, the holidays can be hard. But they’re also holy. Not because everything’s perfect, but because love persists through imperfection. Every light we hang, every song we sing, every story we retell, it’s all proof that love outlasts loss.

If you’re walking through grief this season, know that you’re not alone. Whether your loss is new or years old, their love still lives in you. Let it guide you. Let it soften you. Let it remind you that the holidays don’t have to look the same to still hold meaning.

My mom used to say, “You can’t stop Christmas from coming-but you can decide how it finds you.” So this year, may it find you gently - in the glow of a candle, in a quiet act of kindness, or in a moment that makes you laugh through tears, like I do every time I remember her trying to “fix” the tree by rotating the entire thing instead of just moving the ornaments.

Because even in grief, there’s still room for love…and maybe even a little laughter.

Happy holidays. Be especially kind to yourself and others during this season.

Jamie McGrew