I always knew this Christmas would be different. I just didn’t know how different.
Christmas has always been tethered to my parents in ways I didn’t fully appreciate until they were gone. The familiar rituals—the phone calls, the meals that somehow tasted like childhood no matter how old I got, the quiet reassurances that came from simply knowing they were there—were the invisible threads holding the season together. This year, those threads are gone, and I feel the absence in every corner of December.
What surprised me most was how early the grief arrived. It didn’t wait for Christmas Eve or Christmas morning. It showed up with the first holiday commercial, the first Christmas song in a store, the first casual question of, “So what are you doing for the holidays?” Grief, I’ve learned, doesn’t need an invitation.
This Christmas feels quieter. Not just in sound, but in spirit. There’s no one to call with last-minute questions, no parental excitement bubbling over about traditions or food or plans. There’s no safety net of “home” in the way there used to be. I’m realizing that home wasn’t a place—it was them.
I’ve also noticed how grief doesn’t come neatly wrapped. Some moments are heavy and sad, exactly as I expected. Others catch me completely off guard—like laughing at a memory and then feeling guilty for laughing, or feeling oddly numb when I thought I’d be in tears. There’s no right way to do this, no checklist for surviving a first Christmas without your parents. There’s just getting through it one moment at a time.
I’m trying to give myself permission this year. Permission to say no to traditions that hurt too much. Permission to keep the ones that feel comforting. Permission to step away when it all feels overwhelming. And permission to feel joy when it shows up, even if it sits right next to sorrow.
Because that’s the truth of this Christmas: joy and grief are sharing the same space. I miss my parents deeply. I wish I could hear their voices, see their names light up my phone, feel that sense of being someone’s child again. That loss doesn’t disappear just because it’s Christmas.
But I also know they wouldn’t want this season to break me. They would want me to be gentle with myself, to find small moments of warmth, to keep going—even when it’s hard.
So this Christmas, I’m honoring them not by pretending everything is fine, but by being honest about what this season is now. It’s tender. It’s complicated. It’s painful. And somehow, it’s still meaningful.
If you’re walking through your own first Christmas without someone you love, know this: you’re not doing it wrong. However you’re surviving is enough. And even in the quiet, even in the ache, love is still here—just in a different form.
This Christmas looks different.
And I’m learning that different doesn’t mean empty.
It just means changed.
Thanks for reading. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.
This {_______} life 