Christmas has always been my favorite holiday of the year. But this year, for the first time in a very long time, the silence in my apartment is louder than the carols.
Memory can be a double-edged sword during the holidays.
In years past, my Christmas was defined by a specific, chaotic, beautiful noise. It was the sound of a "traditional" family celebration. It was a table groaning under the weight of a feast I helped prepare. It was the tearing of wrapping paper as we opened stockings, the clatter of dice on the table during our board game sessions, and the quiet, peaceful moments in between.
Most of all, it was defined by the happiness on the faces of the people around me. I fed off that joy. It was my fuel.
This year, the script has flipped. Following the dissolution of my marriage, I am spending Christmas alone. There is no feast to cook. There are no stockings to fill. The games are on the shelf. The silence is heavy, and the longing for that lost "normal" weighs on me physically, like a wet wool coat I can’t take off.
The Shadow of Loss
But my solitude is only one layer of the grief that hangs over this season.
I am acutely aware that while I sit here missing the family unit I lost, the people who made up that family are dealing with a loss far more permanent. The death of my stepson - my ex-wife's youngest boy - casts a long shadow over this holiday.
Grief does not take a holiday. In fact, it pulls up a chair and sits right at the head of the table.
It is easy to look at the holidays as a binary: either you are "Merry and Bright," or you are a Grinch. But real life is lived in the grey. It is possible to love the people in your life - my daughters, my mother, my friends - while simultaneously grieving the structure that used to hold us all together. It is possible to want the best for people you can no longer be with.
To Those Who Have It
If you are waking up today to a full house, to a chaotic kitchen, to the noise of kids or parents or partners: Soak it in.
Don't let the stress of the turkey or the mess of the wrapping paper distract you. Look at their faces. Memorize the noise. That chaos is a luxury.
To Those Who Don't
And if, like me, you are facing a Silent Night - whether due to divorce, death, estrangement, or distance - please know that you are not doing Christmas "wrong."
The empty chairs at our tables are not failures. They are testaments to the love we had, and the love we still carry.
Enjoy the holidays where you can. Find peace in the quiet. But give yourself permission to acknowledge the ghost of Christmas Past. It’s okay if it doesn't feel the same. It’s okay if it hurts.
I will be raising a glass to the absent friends, the lost family, and the memories that keep us warm when the house is quiet.
Merry Christmas.
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