The first holidays after a loss
Christmas, birthdays, New Year's — how to navigate difficult days when someone is missing from the table.
The calendar approaches December and you’ve been feeling it for weeks. Not the cosiness others seem to feel, but something else. A heaviness. A pressure. The prospect of a table where someone is missing, of traditions that are suddenly painful, of a world celebrating while you’re grieving.
The first holidays after a loss are one of the hardest moments. Not just because of the missing itself — that’s always there — but because of the expectation. The expectation that you’ll join in. That you’ll smile. That you won’t ruin the atmosphere. That you’ll ‘just’ be present.
And at the same time there’s that empty chair. The name that’s no longer spoken, or that is spoken, and then a silence falls. The presents you no longer need to buy. The recipe that was hers. The moment he always made the joke, and now nobody does.
I often hear that the lead-up is worse than the day itself. Weeks beforehand you go over it: how am I going to do this? Can I manage? What if I fall apart? That anticipation devours energy and builds a tension that makes the day itself heavier than it perhaps needs to be. By the time the day arrives, you’re already exhausted from imagining it.
There are a few things I’ve learned from the people I work with.
The first is that there’s no right or wrong. You don’t have to go to the Christmas dinner if it’s too much. You’re allowed to change traditions — a different place, a different time, a new ritual. The fact that you always did it this way doesn’t mean you have to do it this way now. Traditions are meant to give connection, not to cause pain. Some people find comfort in keeping everything exactly the same. Others need to break the pattern entirely. Both are valid.
The second is that it’s okay to be honest. With the people around you, but also with yourself. If you say: “I don’t know if I can handle this,” that’s not weakness. That’s clarity. And it gives the people around you the chance to take you into account, rather than guessing how you’re doing.
The third is that it’s not just the first year. Sometimes the second or third year is actually harder. The first year you’re still in a kind of numbness — everything is new, everything is raw. The second year the numbness is gone, and the missing is still there. The people around you expect it’s ‘getting better’. And you notice it’s sharper than ever. That disconnect — between what others expect and what you feel — can be more painful than the grief itself.
The fourth is that naming the absence can help. Some families avoid mentioning the person who’s missing, thinking it protects others from pain. But the absence is already in the room — everyone feels it. Saying their name, sharing a memory, even just acknowledging that this is a hard day — it often brings more relief than silence does.
And the fifth: if the charge around these moments stays just as overwhelming year after year, that’s a sign that something is stuck that won’t shift on its own. The grief has got stuck, and the holidays are the moment when that’s felt most keenly. That’s not failure — that’s information. And it’s something you can work with.
There are also the unexpected triggers. The carol that was their favourite. The smell of cinnamon that takes you straight back. The habit of buying a specific gift that no longer has a recipient. These aren’t things you can prepare for. They arrive unannounced, and they cut through whatever composure you’d built up. That’s normal. It doesn’t mean you’re falling apart — it means the loss is real and the memories are alive.
Some people find it helps to create a new ritual that acknowledges the absence. Lighting a candle, setting a place, sharing a story. It doesn’t have to be elaborate. It just has to be honest.
Take it gently. Give yourself permission to feel whatever comes. And if you notice you could use some help navigating this period, book a conversation. We’ll look together at what you need — without expectations.