Christmas Isn’t the Same: Grieving a Child, Years On

The lights go up. The carols play. The world leans into cheer and celebration.

And still, something’s missing.

It’s been years since I lost my child—years that have passed in seasons, in birthdays not celebrated, in milestones not met. And every December, when Christmas returns with all its brightness and noise, so does the quiet ache that never really leaves.

Grief at Christmas is its own kind of silence. It doesn’t fit neatly into the season. There’s not much space in holiday playlists or greeting cards for sorrow. But for many of us who’ve lost a child, Christmas is when the absence feels loudest.

I remember what it used to be—the way Christmas morning lit up their face, or how I imagined it would if I didn’t get the chance. The stockings I once hung with care. The gifts I would have picked. The traditions we never got to build. There’s an outline of my child in everything: the photos, the empty chair, the quiet space beneath the tree.

Time has changed my grief, but it hasn't erased it. The first few Christmases without them were unbearable, hollow. I tried to pretend for others, to keep up appearances, to smile through the pain. But now I know better. I know I can honor both the grief and the joy. I can light a candle beside the tinsel. I can speak their name alongside the toasts. I can let the missing be part of the holiday, because it always is—whether I acknowledge it or not.

Some years I want the company. Some years I want the quiet. Some years I participate in the celebrations; others, I keep it simple and still. And that’s okay. Grief doesn’t follow a calendar. It doesn’t care that it’s Christmas. It comes when it comes—and during the holidays, it often comes dressed as longing.

If you’ve lost a child, you know the feeling. That flicker in your chest when you see families laughing at the tree lot. The sudden lump in your throat at the sound of a song. The ache that comes not from what is, but from what should have been.

But there is also this: love.

Enduring, unshakable love. I feel it every year, just as strongly. In the memories. In the rituals I’ve created to honor them. In the small ways I keep them close—an ornament on the tree, a name written in the snow, a moment of stillness in all the noise.

Christmas is not the same. It never will be. But it is still sacred.

Because even in absence, they are here. Always.