Updated: 1 day ago
When the Holidays Get Smaller, the Missing Gets Louder
I've been thinking lately about how the holidays get smaller over time. It doesn't happen all at once, and nobody sits you down to tell you this will be the last year everyone is here. It happens one change at a time, and most of the time you don't notice until you're standing in the middle of a smaller Christmas, wondering when it got so quiet.
The kids grow up, move away and get married, and the holidays start getting split between families. Then the grandkids come, which is a joy all its own, but it changes who's where and when. That first Christmas morning your kids wake up somewhere else has its own kind of ache, no matter how old they are. Some years it's just two of us at the table, and some years being together with family means a long drive.
And I find myself missing the very things I used to stress about. I wanted the house decorated just right and a menu with something for everyone, making sure all the gifts were wrapped, and then there we all were, laughing in the kitchen and bumping elbows while everyone tried to cook at once. We played games past midnight, and they were the most fun we had all year, even if the mess waiting for me the next morning was not. Getting ready for a full house was stressful, it really was, but now it's the kind of stress I miss.
This is my second Christmas without my brother. People talk about the first year, and they're right to, because the first year is shock. You move through it half-numb, getting through each day and each tradition because you have to.
For as long as I can remember, Christmas morning was a race between the two of us. When we were kids, it was about who woke up first, and somehow that never stopped, even years later with homes and families of our own, when it became a race to see who would call the other first. It was a little piece of our childhood Christmas that we carried with us for decades. That first Christmas without him was the first time in my life there was no race, and he wasn't there to call.
The second year is quieter, and in some ways harder, because it's the year you start accepting what isn't coming back. I miss his voice on the phone, the Facebook likes that used to show up on everything I posted, and the texts and messages that came out of nowhere. I miss hearing how excited he was about what he'd planned for his own family. And I miss the memories only a brother and sister share, the ones nobody else remembers quite the same way, which are now mine to hold alone.
Losing your parents is hard, and I lost my mom the year my son was born. But when you start losing your siblings, it feels different. It's grief compounded by all the family you're missing as you begin to feel the thread of the life you always knew slowly disappearing, and you realize how fragile all of it really is.
Our mom had always been big on stockings, and after she died, my brother kept that alive for me. Every year he filled a stocking for me and shopped for it himself, with nail polish, a book, peanut M&Ms, a lint roller, Batman stickers and all kinds of girly things. It was never really about what was inside it. It was the love that went into it, knowing someone thought about me, picked out every little thing himself and took so much joy in doing it. And he's just not here.
I think that's what grief at the holidays really is. It isn't only missing a person, but missing the particular way they loved you and all the small, ordinary ways they showed it.
If you're carrying an empty chair this year, or a quieter house, or a tradition there's nobody left to keep, I want you to know you can love this season and grieve inside it at the same time. Those two things aren't in competition, and most real holidays hold a little of both.
I don't have a neat answer for any of this, and I'm not sure there is one. But I do know where some of the wonder comes back, and for me it comes back through the grandkids. There's a baby who can't look away from the lights and a three-year-old just beginning to understand what all of this is about, and there were tears on Santa's lap that turned into "I'll stand by you, just don't touch me."
Watching Christmas and Santa all over again through their eyes, I see my son at that same age in my mind, right there beside his own son (knowing the cycle will begin this year with the new baby). The memories blend, and for a moment the little boy he was and the babies he has now are in the same room. My heart aching a little thinking about how my mom missed being part of it all. Maybe that's how it works, and the season gets smaller in some places and fuller in others, sometimes in the very same year.
The people we miss most are usually the ones who made the season feel the way it did. So if you find yourself in a store this December, picking up something small because it reminds you of someone, let yourself. That love still needs somewhere to go.
Be gentle with yourself this year, because the holidays will take up more room in your heart than usual, and it's okay to leave some room for that. And if this season feels heavier than you can carry on your own, please reach out to someone you trust or to a grief counselor, because you don't have to carry it by yourself.
Until next time —
Nelea R. Lane
a/k/a The Happy Juice Chick Founder The Stress Less Era
Available by Text: 936-209-7222
This is part of the Letters from the Stress Less Era series, where I write about what I’ve lived, what I’ve learned, and what it can look like to find your way back to yourself.
Grief and holiday stress have a way of showing up in the body, in sleep that won't come, energy that runs out early, or patience that wears thin. If you're noticing any of that this season, the free 2-minute Daily Stressors Quiz can help you see where stress is showing up most, and gives you a few simple ways to start feeling steadier before the big days arrive.
