Why there is no Christmas letter this year.

I tried to write a Christmas letter. But Christmas letters are supposed to be happy, full of cheer and glowing reports of the year gone by.

What glowing thing can I say about the year in which my son died? That I’m still here? That I didn’t die with him? That there have been moments of happiness that almost, almost captivated me, before the swell of sorrow dragged me back down?

No, this isn’t the year for a Christmas letter, warm and cheerful. This is the year for hiding in my house, inhabiting my grief, stretching and limbering up the muscles of grief, because this isn’t a weight that I was ready to carry.

That’s the thing about grief in our society. We aren’t taught that it is love’s twin. We aren’t taught that they are two sides of the same coin – one impossibly bright and the other impossibly dark. We will all grieve. If we live, if we engage, if we love, then we will grieve. If you haven’t felt grief, real grief, that soul-etching, paralyzing, suffocating sorrow for the loss of someone you love, then hold tight, because you will. None of us are exempt.

Our society is so swept up in feeling good, in keeping busy, in going and doing, that we abhor grief. We actively shun it. And truthfully, who doesn’t? No one wants to feel like this, day after day, week after week, month after month. But just because we don’t want to feel that way doesn’t mean we can stop it when it happens. Grief must be inhabited. Grief must be seen, heard, felt. If it is not, then it festers inside of us. Society would have us “feel better” – take antidepressants, seek a way to “cure” our sadness. There is no cure for grief. Grief is as a part of our life as love is, should we let it in.

We must all learn to make room for it in our lives. And it’s work. It’s tremendous work to acknowledge those feelings and to bear them. It takes practice. Like anything, you aren’t born knowing how to deal with the complexities of grief. You must learn. You must train yourself. Society doesn’t teach us this. Society teaches us to run from our grief, hide from our grief, busy ourselves so that we are distracted. And it’s damaging.

I think I’ve been running from my grief, as of late. I’m trying to hide from the sorrow of our loss. I think I’ve been hiding from the pain of being a year away from the last time I held my sweet baby, alive in my arms. But in hiding, I only feel worse. The rage, the sadness, the sorrow, the loss – when they aren’t acknowledged, when I’m not with my grief, they come spilling out in other ways – ways that are not healthy.

For the past two days, I’ve been trying to be with my grief – by sitting, deliberately reading about the grieving process, and letting the sorrow flow over me. It’s scary. It’s painful. Who wants to succumb to the power of this kind of sadness? There have been times that I thought “if I let myself start crying, I will never stop.” It would seem irrational, but it’s a very real fear. Once the well of sorrow has been opened, sorrow flows over you like a river, and it often feels like drowning.

It takes great bravery to face your grief head-on, to fully inhabit that space, to allow it to drag you down. And every time that it has dragged me down, I have come up again, if even only for a little while.

I keep coming up. I keep breathing. I keep putting one foot in front of the other. Watching the world, guarding my heart, trying to extend compassion – to myself and to others. But I’m tired. I won’t lie. Grief is exhausting. It’s an almost physical weight that I bear every single day and will for the rest of my life. Sometimes, just the thought of all the days I have left to go overwhelms me, and I want to lie down and sleep forever. But I keep going. One foot. One foot. One foot.

One foot.

4 thoughts on “Why there is no Christmas letter this year.

  1. I heard hour story on the podcast Terrible, Thanks for asking. Me and my 15 year old daughter listened and cried together.

    Do you ever hear someone’s story and learn so much from it? I saved your blog because it is going to help when I have to grieve. I’m a weird preparer like that & I don’t want to run from it as you wrote about.

    James was beautiful. Thank you for sharing your story with us strangers. It is touching and provoking. You’re wise and I wish you peace. May your grief lighten daily if that is even remotely possible.


  2. Aloha from the other side of the country. Just heard your story on TTFA. I drove to work with my chest swelling with wonder at your clarity and vision in such a crisis. Grief is love’s twin to be sure and for you and your family I wish the two join in gratitude and peace to spill over you from every source and direction. Thank you for sharing this hero’s journey. I am in a storytelling class and I recently rediscovered Women Who Run With the Wolves. You are wild and feirce and loved. Don’t forget. You are beautiful and your story made my life better today.


  3. I’m a loss mom as well and you put exactly how I feel. How can I send messages of joy, when I feel nothing, but sorrow. Praying for peace for you and your family this season.


  4. Thank you for sharing your story. I heard you speak on TTFA. The beautiful tribute you gave to your son…there are no words. Again–thank you for sharing your story.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s